The Tributes
by There Was A Silence
Summary: Twenty four go in, one comes out. A fight to the death, and there's nothing any of them can do about it. Right? Wrong.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: This is an AU Hetalia take on the Hunger Games, so if you don't like that, then feel free to leave. I won't be sore, I promise. (if you DO stick around, however, I'll love you forever if you drop a review!) Also, I'll tell you now, I'm taking serious creative liberty to make it fit with Hetalia. First off, the age limit: I'm letting the characters keep their official ages, instead of trying to fit them into the Hunger Games limit: instead of from 12 to 18, I'm going from 12 to 30. Also, the 'boy, girl' rule for Tributes is null and void. Here, a girl and a boy CAN be picked together, but it all depends on the draw. Less importantly, the Districts themselves will not be the same as they are in HG- there are no Careers, so everyone's lives pretty equally sucks. There are to be many more, and I blame Creative License. If you don't like any of these changes, again, feel free to leave, k? Hopefully, though, you'll give it a chance!**

**Also, I'm just gonna apologize now for the fail translations. All other languages, mainly French in this chapter, were gotten from Google translate. Fail, I know.**

**EDIT: I had to repost this because I accidentally put up the second part too. It's shorter now, but I think that makes it easier to read. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Neither Hetalia or the Hunger Games, as regrettable as it is, are mine.**

**…**

When was it, exactly, that waking up each morning had become a chore?

"Since the bloody day I was _born_…"

Was the answer that Arthur Kirkland, age twenty three, decided to give to the metaphorical question posed to him by the universe on that particular morning, somehow managing to _not_ wake his younger brother, Peter, sleeping beside him.

At this, Arthur did a double take; Peter, just entering his rebellious 'I'm going to be a total wanker just to screw with my brother's life' teen phase, had been very firm in his decision that he no longer needed to share a bunk with his elder brother, and demanded independence in the form of his own room and bed. And while Arthur knew for a fact that the scrawny twerp of twelve year old would not fare well on his own, he had decided to humor him; it wasn't as though he was moving out of the house, so Arthur could still watch over him (and he really had to choose his battles wisely when it came to Peter, the little brat).

But apparently Peter's tantrums had been for show, because here he was again, sleeping soundly next to his brother on the day of the Reap—

Oh.

_Oh._

"Bugger all…" Arthur dragged a hand slowly across his sleep deprived face with a sigh. That made more sense- it was Reaping Day. Peter had always had nightmares the night before, and would go to his brother for comfort; it made sense that he had gotten frightened in the middle of the night and climbed in beside him. After all, this was his first official Reaping. With a small, fond smile at the bundle curled beneath the covers, the older of the two swung his legs off the side of the mattress to the creaky floor, tucked Peter in tighter, and crept from the room to prepare for the rest of the worst day of the year.

Reaping Day. The bane of every district's existence, and the death sentence for twenty four unlucky young men and women.

"Twenty _three_," He corrected under his breath, recalling that there would be one survivor as he steeled himself for the difficult task of preparing breakfast. While all two dozen of the chosen were given the privilege of a month's stay in the sanctuary that was the Capital, Hetalia, and were pampered and primed and fed and waited on like gods—while that was true, Arthur would much prefer his drab, day-to-day struggle for food and water, barely-making-it-by life to being chosen on Reaping Day. Because once that month of heaven was done, and you were trained and content and no longer malnourished, _wham_ you're dropped into the hellish, wide awake nightmare you've been waiting for all along—what you were chosen for, the Hunger Games.

A disturbing, sick fight to the finish for all the tributes chosen, in which twenty four people were thrown into the Arena, given a multitude of weapons, and told to kill each other off—often in terrible, humiliating and gruesome ways for the entertainment of those in the Capital—until only one was left standing.

Arthur scowled deeply at the thought, and had the sudden urge to gag—although, looking down, that may have been because of the cold, gray, absolutely wretched gruel he was forced to eat (at least, Arthur told himself it was gruel; he spent the greater part of his meal trying to convince himself it wasn't breathing).

This was how it went every Reaping Day—a day which only came around once a year, thank God—Arthur stuck with his tacky, hard and _not_ breathing gruel, and Peter with a soft, warm, buttered boiled egg.

The Briton wasn't bitter about this; in fact, it was his choice. While he would have liked a nice soft boiled egg as well, they were in short supply, and unbearably expensive. They could afford only a couple every year, for special occasions: birthdays, holidays and the like. But the Reaping Day egg was special. It had butter, and _that_ was a real delicacy. Only the top notch people in their district could afford such a treat (the same people that could buy their ways out of being chosen in the Reaping, the stupid tossers). He and his neighbor Francis could only manage to get half a stick between them, and that was with their money pooled. So, naturally, his small slice of heaven went to Peter's egg. A special gift he knew the boy loved waking up to.

Arthur sighed as he exited the house, running a hand through unruly blonde locks; he'd have liked to see the smile on Peter's face when he saw the egg, but if they were going to make it through this Reaping Day, then he had work to do.

Crossing the cobblestone street in tattered, long worn out shoes that looked as though they had no right being out and about in their condition, Arthur approached the door of his neighbor and knocked twice firmly. It had always gone this way, as long as he could remember; every Reaping Day, he would rise first, before dawn, and wake Francis up, give him his egg, and by the time the sun finally hauled its arse out they would already be deep in the woods hunting.

There was movement behind the door, and Arthur rolled the egg from hand to hand patiently. As tempting as it was to just eat it and laugh in the French bastard's face, he refrained with a sigh; Francis, living alone, had paid for most of the butter, so he deserved the treat more than Arthur himself. He felt a small smile touch his lips as he looked down at the oval swathed in cloth. Boiled eggs and tea—that was about all he could make apparently, while every other food he touched seemed to wither and _die_.

This sentiment was shared by both Francis _and_ Peter, the arses they were. In fact, the only one who'd ever been able to stand Arthur's cooking was Al—

_Whoa._

Where the bloodyhell did _that_ thought come from?

"A penny for your thoughts, _mon cher_?"

Arthur shrieked and nearly jumped clean out of his skin as he whirled around to face the smirking Francis Bonnefoy behind him, practically breathing down his neck.

And after _that_ highly feminine display of fear, the red-faced Arthur did about the only thing he could to defend his remaining masculinity: he bitch-slapped Francis in the face.

"Ow! _Mon dieu_, Arthur! That hurt!"

"It was supposed to, perv." Arthur unceremoniously dropped the egg in front of his neighbor, not bothering to see if his frantic attempts to catch it succeeded and turned and stomped away, nose flipped haughtily as Francis grumbled a string of French profanities behind him.

"So what _were_ you thinking of?" The Frenchman asked curiously after five minutes of silence, a strange occurrence for the usually bickering pair. Instead of the snarky reply he had been expecting from the sharp Brit, however, he was given a much quieter, almost melancholy response.

"Alfred."

The Briton could feel the man beside him give a start, and there was a brief pause. Heat began to climb his neck and ears and he glued his green gaze to the ground ahead in embarrassment. He shouldn't have said anything. He and Francis hadn't spoken about those two in years, hadn't needed to for it just opened old wounds, and here he was going and dredging up the pa—

"Ha… _c'est drole_. I've been thinking about Matthew recently too,"

Arthur blinked twice, three times, openly staring in shock. Matthew and Alfred had been twins, four years younger than the Englishman and seven from the Frenchman, and had been the younger half-brothers of Francis and Arthur.

Identical, you had to know them to recognize the differences—where Alfred had energetic, positively electric blue eyes, Matthew's had been of a softer, gentler mauve color, only a shade or two from his brother's. The only other notably clear difference between them was their hair, and that was a stretch. Alfred's had been cropped shorter, parted to the side, while Matthew's had grown out just an inch or two longer and parted in the middle. And while very few could differentiate between the two, their personalities could not have been more contradictory.

Alfred was bubbly, hyper, arrogant beyond all logic and annoying as hell (although to that Alfred would probably retort with the fact that he didn't believe in hell and something along the lines of 'Logic? Screw logic! Who needs logic when you've got Alfred F. Jones?' and then proceed to tie logic to a kamikaze dump truck and push it off a cliff laughing).

But Alfred also possessed a remarkable sense of justice, and would defend what was right and true to the very end. He was naturally optimistic and bright, and always voiced his opinions and spoke his mind honestly and without fear. He would die for his loved ones in a heartbeat, even if he'd never say it. And Arthur had always admired that about him.

Matthew, on the other hand, was much quieter, more understanding and a lifetime more patient with a comforting smile. He was shy, quiet, and a damn good listener; the same could not be said of Alfred. The child was unconditionally kind and forgiving, and Arthur often felt guilty for asking even the simplest things of Matthew for fear that he was taking advantage of the gentle boy, but he never seemed to mind. Although, there were times when this could be a bad thing; Matthew had terrible trouble voicing his own wants and opinions, and often got overlooked. But they all knew he was never any less for it. In fact, the only person that really ever seemed to stress out the easy going Matthew was his twin.

Often overshadowed and mistaken for him, Alfred was constantly causing his brother trouble. They bickered relentlessly, fought endlessly—but it would be a lie if Arthur said that those were any more than sibling squabbles. The brothers, he knew, were protective of and cared for one another deeply, and shared a strong bond of which only twins could have. They loved each other, and Francis and Arthur in turn loved them.

They would both swear up and down that there had been no favorites, but Arthur had to admit that he'd had a stronger connection with Alfred, and Francis likewise with Matthew. More than likely it was due to the similarities the boys had inherited respectively. Arthur's father and Francis' mother had been the legitimate parents to the twins, which was where the half-brother and step brother status came in.

Arthur and Francis had never felt or regarded each other as brothers, before or after their respective parents became intimate; they had been and always would be bitter rivals (the more accurate term being 'best friends', but they would promptly jump off the cliff with logic and the dump truck before admitting that), but they both adored the twins.

While Alfred was more American than anything, there was no question that he took after Arthur. He had the same stubborn attitude, strong views, wild blonde hair and an odd sense of taste when it came to food.

Matthew, in turn, took after Francis. Gently wavy locks, a talent for cooking and a love for the French language; although Francis used to say it was more of a Canadian dialect, but this could be attributed to their mother's Canadian lineage, which was evident in the young boy.

And, for a very long time, they were happy. Even after Francis' mother took her own life and Arthur's father abandoned them. They had had each other for support, and had pulled through together. A small, broken family of four; as long as they were together, they could make it. As long as they were together, it would all be okay. As long as they were together.

Arthur had honestly believed that.

But about two years after their parents left forever, a time when the four kids had lived under one roof to prevent the tides of loneliness, the government had found out about their situation and decided to take 'action'. Arthur had been sixteen at the time, Francis nineteen and the twins twelve; Alfred and Matthew had just been preparing for their first Reaping.

Although both were wholly terrified of the possibilities that lay before them—that small, miniscule chance of the Hunger Games— they had both tried to be brave. Tried so hard, Arthur remembered, they had tried so damn hard. So, as a matter of course, their older brothers had been there for them. They were going to survive it together, like always, and the thought had been comforting.

A week before Reaping Day, however, men and women (in suits they couldn't even afford to look at and smelling of perfumes that made Arthur gag) began entering and exiting their home. While the hawkish, beady eyes, snootily upturned noses, and offensive, rude, and sickening sneers of disapproval gave Arthur every God-given right to kick them in the balls, he refrained. These bastards were clearly from Hetalia, and a swift kick to the well-deserving scrotum would probably not bode well for them in the long run.

So they put on smiles, remained on their best behavior, tried to scrub the grime out of hair and face for the people that looked at them as though they were mongrels with rabies to be kept at a safe distance. The boys settled instead for the fluent French obscenities that passed Francis' lips with a smile, much to the officials confusion (ie: _May I have something to drink?_

_Oui oui, monsieur. Comment osez-vous me parler, bâtard de porc stupide tête. Regardez-vous, se pavaner comme un paon avec votre tête vos ânes, brailler comme des imbéciles que vous êtes. __Mais je suppose que je ne peux pas attendre grand-chose de pompeux imbéciles comme vous, d'ailleurs, vous ne savez même pas vous faire insulter, pensez-vous?_

_U-um… thank you?) _and the gagging brought on by courtesy of Arthur Kirkland's cooking (the best was how they tried to keep it down because their prim, pompous asses were simply _above_ puking; little did they know that with the exception of Alfred, Arthur had yet to come across a stomach he couldn't upturn and he said this with pride, dammit). But this satisfaction was mild, and short lived. Because despite their hospitality, their good behavior, the way they just sat and _took_ all the shit they were given, the verdict came in a short time later.

And the day before the Reaping, Alfred and Matthew were taken to another district, another family, because their current living situation was 'unfit for children'.

Arthur remembered it clear as day, the morning the twins disappeared.

Soldiers and officials from Hetalia had bust down their door without warning, jolting an alarmed Arthur out of bed at 5:15 am. The only reason he'd known the time at all was because the twins had given a watch to he and Francis each; one of the fancy, top of the line ones from Hetalia that never stopped ticking until it's owner's heart did. While Alfred and Matthew had great senses of moral and ethical values, they had all agreed that the Hetalia government agents they had pick-pocketed the watches from—quite expertly, Arthur thought with a probably-misplaced pride—wouldn't really miss the trinkets too much, seeing as they could by a dozen more with their pocket change and then some, and that was besides the fact that the bloody brutes had absolutely deserved it.

Although Arthur wasn't one to openly share his feelings like a tool, he had to admit that the watch he still wore was his very dearest, most precious possession. And that morning at 5:15, it had marched along mercilessly as his world crumbled around him.

Men in military uniforms with helmets over their heads and visors covering their eyes had torn the humble home apart, upturning and ransacking everything, 'looking' for the twin children despite already knowing where they were. As they went on destroying, Francis by now outraged and shouting, a woman in a sharp, sickeningly bright suit approached Arthur with brisk steps. She had then proceeded to read off of an electronic clipboard, never once glancing up, babbling something about Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy being deemed unfit to care for two young children, by the names of Alfred F. Jones and Matthew Williams, as they were all four still minors (Francis tried in vain to deny this given that he was nineteen, but he was overridden yet again by the woman's harsh, clipped tones), that the young ones were to be removed and placed in a safe environment with a healthy family dynamic in another district, and some other such nonsense.

But it all fell on deaf ears. Arthur knew what was happening the moment those suits entered the house, and the sensation it left him with, if to be described in one word, was numb. He didn't process Francis' shocked silence before absolutely bursting with fury moments later. He didn't comprehend the sight of sweet, innocent little Matthew trembling and shaking violently, tears running down his cheeks as he squeezed his twin's hand for comfort, any at all. He didn't register Alfred's shouting beside him, using any and every vulgar curse in each language and dialect he knew to describe the offended woman and her suit and her soldiers and her Capital and her damn fucking clipboard.

And he certainly didn't feel it as two soldiers came and practically dragged his little brothers out from behind him and to the front door.

The first thing that really entered his shutdown mind, the only thing that mattered in the world at all, was when Alfred's hand—_so small, it had always been so small_—was forcibly jerked from his.

And that sudden absence brought the world back.

Suddenly, everything was alive around him; the woman and soldiers were leaving, having gotten what they came for, when Francis blocked their path. Moments prior, he had been screaming and threatening like the world was ending—which was probably a terrible phrase, considering that for them it kind of was—and now, as a last, desperate effort, he was begging, pleading with them to stop, to let his brothers go.

Arthur watched in dismay, standing, about to join his friend, English pride be _damned,_ when he was rooted to the spot. One of the soldiers, impatient with the French teen barring his way, had brutally jerked the nineteen year old up by the collar and thrown him against the wall viciously, ignoring the twins and Arthur's cries of protest.

For half a second, staring at Francis as he slid to the floor and cradled his wounded arm and tried to stand again, Arthur considered his options. He could follow the Frenchman's example and try to appeal to the government workers' better halves, or he could go on a full out, bat-shit crazy assault in an attempt to retake his brothers and wound one of the Hetalia pricks while he was at it. One more look at a shaking, furious Francis and another at Matthew, crying out and reaching for the former, and lastly at Alfred; sky blue eyes staring directly at him, openly and utterly terrified, macho hero façade shattered as tears streaked down his face and he called out, once—

_"Arthur, please!"_

And before he really knew what he was doing, he had shoved the clipboard woman aside, grabbed the shoulder of the soldier holding Alfred captive, the same one that had hurt Francis, turned him around and in a wild rage punched him a total of four times in the face. After whirling and giving a similar treatment to the stunned soldier who had taken Matthew, he managed to floor two others of the burly men. Despite being only sixteen, Arthur had come to live by the truth that you would not survive in this world if you could not decently rumble, and as it had in the past, this rule was doing a damn good job by him.

At least until a soldier grabbed him from behind and smashed his skull into the doorframe.

Before he could collapse quite fully, because his body seemed pretty hell-bent on doing that all of a sudden, a steel-toed boot connected firmly with his gut. The only sound that passed his lips was a choked grunt of agony as he was kicked, harder, in the stomach and then the ribcage again and _again_ as he lay limp on the ground, and all he could think was _when did I fall?_

The pain was gone already— black and scarlet dots were clouding his vision and he barely noticed the steady pulse of blood streaming down his face; ears ringing too loudly to hear the horrified screaming of his name from his family.

He watched, feeling detached and far away and numb all over as Francis scrambled to him, shouting and shaking his shoulder sharply, navy optics filled to brimming with fear and concern. But Arthur couldn't focus; he couldn't breathe, much less meet the other's eyes and answer. He vaguely noticed as Francis stopped yelling, eyes widening and absorbing a new emotion: absolute, white-hot hatred.

An anger and loathing like none other passed over the teen's face as he stood and glared at the man that had beaten his friend, and then, without warning, launched himself at him in an all out attack. Arthur wanted to help him, wanted to rise, wanted to save his brothers, wanted to do _something_, but he couldn't pick himself up. Couldn't lift a finger, couldn't even follow the fight as it left his vision. And the last thing he saw was Alfred and Matthew, crying, desperate, as the woman discreetly ushered them out.

For them, Arthur found the strength to lift his hand, trembling, reaching, because they couldn't take the twins, please, not his brothers, not his boys; but then they grew hazy, his hand fell listless, and blackness took him.

When he came to, he found himself on his side on the cold wood floor, lying in a pool of his own semi-dried blood. He couldn't move without wanting horribly to vomit and his head to pound angrily in protest, and he was about to allow himself to slip into unconsciousness again because that sounded like the most appealing idea in the whole blooming century, when he caught sight of Francis crouched on the other side of the room.

The boy's legs were drawn up to his chest, face buried in his knees, one hand fisted and tugging at blood soaked locks. Dry sobs shook him as he shivered violently, muttering a constant slew of distraught French and English.

Forcing himself up to lean on his elbows, Arthur focused on his friend with worry and confusion.

"Fran-cis…?"

The blonde's head snapped up, eyes wide, and Arthur winced as he did so. The Frenchman's features were marred with cuts and bruises; his mouth split and bleeding, left eye blackened and soon to swell. His free arm was draped protectively around his midsection, where there were undoubtedly more wounds.

"A-Arthur…" His voice broke with shock, before the expression melted and gave way to a look of honest relief. He gave a shaky, uncertain laugh, and his eyes slipped closed. "I thought you died,_bâtard rosbif_,"

Arthur scowled, and was about to retaliate sharply when he found the words lodged in his throat. He blinked several times, eyebrows raised. It was suddenly clear that Francis had been telling the truth; a small part of him had honestly believed he had died, and had _cried_ for him, and this revelation stunned the Englishman.

"…Git. I've been breathing just fine this whole time. All you had to do was haul your lazy arse over and check,"

He crossed his arms over his chest as he pulled himself into a sitting position, one eyebrow arched haughtily. But green eyes were gentle as he offered a small, comforting smile. For a moment, the gesture was returned by his companion, silent thanks for the reassurance gleaming in his navy blue eyes. But Arthur watched, the corners of his grin dipping to a frown, as Francis bent in on himself, shaking heavily once again.

"They _took them_, Arthur," He hissed bitterly, voice hoarse. The sobs now were less dry now and filled with a both a burning ire and an agonized helplessness. "Those damn Hetalia soldiers…"

At this, Arthur's heart jumped to his throat, choking him, his tongue dead weight in his mouth. Francis couldn't mean what he was saying. It had all been a bad dream, and if he turned now and looked in the room, they would be there, sleeping soundly and—

"They took Alfred and Matthew…!"

_Arthur couldn't breathe._

For a full year afterwards, the two struggled endlessly, desperately, to regain custody. But they were grasping at straws; they hadn't even been able to find out what district they had been placed in. The best information they'd managed to secure was that the twins hadn't been separated.

Somewhere along the way, Francis had moved back into his old house that he had lived in with his mother across the street, and by the time Peter came to live with Arthur a year and a half after the twins were taken, the friends resolved, silently, never to speak of their younger brothers again.

The only time their memory was ever brought out of the shadows was around their birthdays (July first and fourth, because just like their last names, the two hadn't been able to agree on a date, given that they weren't sure what it actually was) during which Francis would come over for the weekend, and the two would hold a silent toast.

And after seven years, Arthur had successfully blocked their memory out— he'd grown jaded, never spoke of them, never thought of them; the people who had once known the four as a family never brought them up. And the few who did, well, through multiple irate outbursts that were a notch short of seizures (needless to say Francis nearly pissed himself laughing, the twat) by Arthur ensured that they never did again. Arthur had managed to all but forget his two younger brothers that he once held dear.

Forget, at least, until now.

"Maybe it's a sign,"

The Briton started, and looked over at the other incredulously. By now they were on the cusp of their normal hunting grounds, and soon dawn would be upon them. When he didn't answer, Francis continued.

"I can't remember the last time I've heard their names," he said casually, reaching up and brushing his fingers on the low hanging branches. "I haven't even thought of them until now. And then I find that you're thinking of them too, just when I do for the first time in years? Somewhat odd, _oui_?"

"Not at all. As of yesterday, they've been gone seven years. It makes sense for us to think of them now, so don't start up with this 'sign' folly."

Francis reached over and ruffled the other's hair, snickering at the indignant squawks of protest. "A little grumpy, hm, _mon chou_?"

Swatting the hand away, the Brit huffed and crossed his arms tightly over his chest childishly, giving an angry cry when Francis pinched his cheek and _cooed_, for God's sake.

"Aw, he's pouting. How adorable,"

"Let me go, Frog Face!"

"Midget."

"Pervert."

"Drunken limey bastard."

"Foppish surrender monkey."

"Eyebrows."

"That's not an _insult_, twit."

"Arthur, _darling_, those abominations on your face are an insult to beauty such as mine _everywhere_."

"Wha—? Why, you…!"

The chase and almost-homicide that ensued quickly led to their normal hunting competition, and by the time they were through, the sun was high and pulsing. Meeting up at their normal spot, there was a short debate as to whether the winner was quantity or quality, before they made their way back to the market, buying and selling, haggling, trying to get god deals.

Until one-thirty, at least.

By that time, the market was practically deserted—a very rare occurrence reserved especially for Reaping Day. Splitting and pocketing the money, the two trudged back home, identical feelings of dread settling in the pits of their stomachs. Before long, their houses came into sight, and Peter only a moment after, bursting from the door and plowing straight to them.

"Arthur! Uncle Francis! Come on, we're gonna be late!"

The boy also decided it would be a splendid idea to stop his hyperactive stampede in their directing by diving headfirst into the poor, defenseless stomach of his elder brother.

"_Fantastique_, Peter, wonderful job," Francis commended with a smirk, scooping Arthur's small charge up onto his shoulders and off of said man's abdomen. Peter threw an annoyed glare over his shoulder, clicking his tongue impatiently.

"Come _on_, Arthur, you're falling behind!"

"Bloody… bastards…"

The twenty three year old, with a supreme amount of effort, hauled himself to his feet, stumbling after the two and leaving a string of profanities in his wake. It wasn't long before they arrived at the square, or lack thereof; a stage of epic proportions, brought in from Hetalia itself, took up half the space while the large block of district members took up the other. The tension was palpable—Arthur felt it the moment he pried his way into the crowd. Somewhere to his left, he heard a group of girls muttering anxiously. A frown split his face; Reaping Day was the only time of year when he almost wished he were female (emphasis on _almost_).

While yes, girls _were_ picked for the Hunger Games, there were, without doubt, always more men. Only two or three unlucky girls were drawn every year, and that was more because of protocol than anything else. Sure, the drawing was supposed to be _fair_ and _random_, but who gives a bugger about overrated things like 'fairness' when it comes to the Hunger Games and higher ratings?

Arthur Bloody Kirkland, that's who.

Up on stage, a young woman in her twenties was chatting idly with one f the workers. Arthur's nose crinkled and his frown grew deeper. This girl he knew—not personally, but she had been the host of the Hunger Games since she was ten, her cuteness factor winning over viewers. In a surprising turn of events, the good looks she grew into scored even more viewers and she got to keep the job. She was an icon in Hetalia, a hero—poor little girl, straight off the streets of one of the twelve crummy districts, plucked out of thousands for a once in a lifetime chance. And now she helped her fellow people from the districts through the Hunger Games.

"Oh yeah, a real saint," Arthur grumbled sourly, eyeing the pretty blonde with a critical emerald glare. An elbow to the side effectively brought him back to reality, surprise melting to a scowl in record time as his gaze focused on an amused looking Francis. The Frenchman smirked knowingly.

"Bitter much?"

Arthur shoved him back in answer, ignoring the climbing heat in his cheeks at the comment.

"Ow!" Both looked down in bewilderment to see Peter hopping up and down on one foot while the other, having been promptly crushed by his uncle, was gripped tightly in his small fists. And Arthur and Francis, the good guardians they were, took the most logical course of action.

Which involved a lot of laughing and a quick noogie to an already infuriated boy.

"Alright, it's time to get started!"

They froze as the peppy voice of Bella boomed out over the crowd. Slowly, Francis set a still huffing peter down, and Arthur swallowed thickly. It was time.

"This year, we're doing this a little differently. We've got some surprises for the Hunger Games!" She smiled brightly despite the unnerving silence of the crowd, and continued on with vigor. "But, we'll tell you that later. First we have the Reaping! What lucky two will be participating this year?"

As a large crystal globe was wheeled on stage, names on little white slips of paper swirling within, Arthur's heart began to pound. His knees were shaking, and the only sound he heard was the roaring of blood in his ears. This was it. While he and Francis only had a few years left in the Reaping, and their chances of being drawn from the glass were a few handfuls to several hundred, Peter was only twelve. This being his first year of eligibility, his name had only been entered once, but there were still several years left before he was through. Years of dread and fear, of the chance that his time, at last, would come.

If that happened while he himself was spared, he knew he wouldn't be able to bear it.

Another elbow, gentler this time, prodded at his ribs to catch his crestfallen attention. Navy blue orbs locked on bright green ones, and Arthur found himself being comforted by the small smile of reassurance Francis offered. He was reminded of a similar situation seven years before, when he'd been the one doing the comforting, and he allowed himself, for once, vulnerability; lightly he punched his friend's arm, smiling back and giving his thanks through a pleasant silence that he knew the other would understand. They had learned to pick up on each other's mute cues a long time ago.

Together, they could make it through this—he, Francis and Peter. That silly feeling of foreboding was nothing more than paranoia, thoughts of his long gone kid brothers meaning little more than nostalgia. In five minutes, the crowd would disperse, and another Reaping would be over, and—

"Francis Bonnefoy!"

—and they could all go home—

"Arthur Kirkland!"

—and, for one night, be a family again.

Together.

Safe.

The Hunger Games, Arthur thought as Francis shaking fingers latched onto his numb arm and pulled him to the stage, had other plans.

…

**Alright, that's the first part. Next you meet two more tributes- Any guesses as to who they'll be? Or any comments at all? Seriously, I live for reviews. ****Because I'm honestly freaking out 'cause this is the first APH fanfic I've posted here and I'm not sure how it is and... yeah. Pathetic author is pathetic. Review her patheticness?**

**There was a silence**


	2. Chapter 2

**Second part is here! I was going to wait a week, but some awesome reviewers got me psyched to post this as soon as possible. I sincerely hope you enjoy it, and really, really pitifully ask that you review. Review for the pitiful author, please?**

**Disclaimer: In the three days it has been since I first posted this, I have not spontaneously gained the rights to APH. Unfortunately.**

...

"Do you think we could get away?"

Alfred blinked, startled; he and Matthew had been hunting for the greater part of the day now, and the only words exchanged had been playful banter. He frowned softly; Matthew was breaking an unspoken rule (Alfred was considering feeling offended – rule breaking was _his_ thing, and he did not take kindly to having the rug swept from beneath him or other such metaphorical bullshit).

There was no serious talk on Reaping Day. Every other day of their useless, pitiful existence, sure, but not today. Today was for light conversation, happy, to take the thoughts off the more frightening things. He performed an easy grin, so bright it could splinter, attempting to return the atmosphere to its previous state.

"Of course. I'm the hero, after all,"

Matthew offered a smile in return, but it was far away; at least, farther away than normal for him. Alfred raised an eyebrow, giving his brother a friendly shove.

"What's eating at you, stupid? Weren't Canadians supposed to be all happy and carefree and rainbows and butterflies and shit?"

"I thought it was an American's job to be cheerful to the point of stupidity," The retort was quick, immediate; just what he had been hoping, but there was still that quiet discomfort in Matthew's violet eyes. He opened his mouth to interrogate further, but Matthew was speaking again.

"I've been thinking of Francis, Alfred."

At this, Alfred puffed his cheeks and directed his glare at a very incriminating rock; he did not like where this conversation was heading. He rubbed the nape of his neck with a sigh, curling his fingers in the blonde wisps of hair there. He turned his gaze skyward. "Yeah… Yeah, I've been thinking about Arthur some, too."

From the corner of his eye, he could see as Matthew turned to him, eyes wide behind the lenses identical to his own and expression hopeful. "Do you think, maybe, it means we'll see them again—"

"No."

Alfred cursed himself as Matthew visibly cringed; it came out sharper than intended, but when he spoke again he found that his voice still hadn't lost that icy edge. "We haven't heard shit from them in seven years, and that's if they even lived past that day. It wouldn't be the first time Hetalia soldiers beat commoners to death."

By the look on Matthew's face and the way his fists clenched at his sides, Alfred could tell that he should stop; his brother didn't want to hear this. But, honestly, he couldn't stop. He hadn't spoken, hadn't thought of his older brothers in years, and now that he had he just _couldn't stop_. The bitter words seemed to flow as if from some invisible faucet, and he couldn't tell how to turn it off again.

"We both saw the beating Arthur took— hell, he may have died right there, and if that didn't kill him I'd be surprised if those guards didn't finish the job. And I'm sure they didn't let Francis off the hook; they wouldn't have gone easy on them just because we were all kids at the time; we're from the Districts. We were no better than animals to them, and still aren't, and if an animal disobeys its master it's to be put down. The way I see it, either they're both dead, or they just didn't care enough to fucking try and find us."

When he finished, Alfred was left to wonder when it was he had he become so bitter, so cynical and angry.

"They would have looked for us," Matthew's voice was soft as ever, but there was an underlying note of desperation there that made Alfred frown at the small twinge of guilt in his chest. "We know them, Al. They would have tried to get us back, I know they would have. You know it too,"

The blonde gave a one armed shrug, expression forcibly indifferent as he stared ahead. "Then we have our answer, don't we?"

At his side his brother tensed, eyes pained, before ducking his head and staring intently at the ground. He could try to hide it as much as he liked, but Alfred could see the quivering in his shoulders._ Shit_. He'd gone and made Matthew cry. Smooth move, Jones. Fuckin' aces, ya douche.

For a while, the two travelled in silence as they looked for game, the only sounds disturbing the reigning quiet being the gentle crackling of twigs and leaves beneath their boots, and the equally soft sniffling from Matthew. And the guilt certainly wasn't doing Alfred any good. When he missed a shot at some large wild bird just begging to be killed, he couldn't take it anymore.

So both he and Matthew were surprised at the gentleness of his voice.

"Hey, do you remember that Reaping Day where you had that nightmare? And since I wouldn't wake up right away, you went to Francis?" He smiled at the memory, shaking his head. "And like five minutes later, I—"

"You followed me because you got scared too,"

Alfred scoffed at the suggestion with an arrogant, "Please! The hero, scared? I was just wanted to make sure _you_ wereokay." But the light pink dusting his cheeks gave him away, and Matthew chuckled lightly, rolling his eyes.

"Of course, or course. And then Francis thought it would be fun to wake Arthur up and have him join us."

"Yeah, by throwing stuff at him until he went into a rampage and came over to beat his ass."

"Which was when we tackled him down with us,"

The quiet laughter at the memory escalated to full out hysterics as they spoke, to the point that they were leaning against each other for balance and wiping tears from their eyes.

"And-and then when we woke up in the morning, Arthur freaked out 'cause—"

"B-Because he forgot what happened and thought Francis seduced us!"

Alfred collapsed with laughter, Matthew sliding down beside him in a trembling heap. "Oh man, Arthur beat him black and blue for that,"

Matthew nodded weakly, hands at his sides from laughing so hard. Suddenly his eyes lit up, and he tugged on Alfred's sleeve, smiling wide. "Do you remember the first time Arthur made the Reaping egg? He was so happy he'd finally made something edible."

"The only edible thing he could cook. Damn that man for passing on his horrible taste to me," Alfred sighed and shook his head, unable to keep the smile from his face as Matthew scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Consider yourself _lucky_. Your lack in the ability to differentiate between good food and _Arthur_ means you didn't have to suffer as much."

"Yeah, until the day I suddenly realized, 'whoa, dude. This shit is _nasty_.' Poof, epiphany."

"The only one ever, it seems."

Alfred jerked at the blatant insult, grinning and raising a brow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well I thought the underlying insult was quite clear, eh? Simply that you are somewhat short in functioning brain cells."

"Wanna say that to my _face_, tree hugger?" This was possibly _not_ the smartest question to pose to his twin brother, seeing as he was probably the only one Matthew could give a clear and prompt 'fuck you' to. The Canadian sat up slowly, turning to look Alfred dead in the eye, face devoid of all emotion as he said:

"You are _stupid_, Jones."

And then he dared to smile and say so sweetly it _burned_, "There, did that clear it up for you, dear?" before he reached over and _patted Alfred's cheek_. Like a little kid. Like an _incompetent_ little kid. And Alfred could only gape.

Oh, hell to the _no_.

There was no way Matthew was getting out of there alive (or at least without a good strong kick where the sun don't shine).

Cracking his knuckles and positively sneering as he stood, Matthew seemed to sense his danger and inched back with a nervous smile.

"A-Al? Hey, it was just a joke, man. No hard feelings, ri—"

"You have three seconds before imminent _destruction_."

A beat.

Matthew was off and running, yelping as Alfred took off after him with the drive of a man very prepared for homicide. And so went their next two hours—more insulting, bickering, chasing, and swapping stories of their old guardians. Not nearly as much hunting was accomplished as originally planned, but to be perfectly honest, Alfred didn't mind. He couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken of his big brothers like this—with laughter and smiles and a curious warmth throughout his being—and, in truth, he loved it. It was the happiest he had been in a long, long time.

Besides, as Matthew pointed out when they were making their way to their usual rendezvous point, the hunting hadn't been a total failure. Their traps had all been full, and Matt, the adorable nature-loving dork he was, had found and picked several good fruits, berries and herbs to both sell later and munch on now.

"We were taught well, huh?" Matthew mused quietly as he folded his legs into a pretzel. Alfred hummed his agreement as he joined him, popping another small fruit into his mouth.

"I mean, look at all the food we still managed to get." The Canadian gestured in the general direction of their prey, "And that was _with_ all the slacking off. Arthur and Francis did well by us."

His twin nodded thoughtfully, mulling it over. It was true; nearly their entire livelihood was the result of their older brothers' teachings. Hell, even this half hour break they took was originally developed by them.

"Yeah," He agreed softly, running a hand through mussed golden hair with a small smile. "I guess they did."

A comfortable silence fell between them as they ate, admiring the view their spot provided and losing themselves in memories of days long gone. It was as Alfred reached for another berry that he noticed his brother's face— eyes glazed and far away, almost hopeful, and very sad. And suddenly he remembered the question Matthew had asked him a few hours earlier. But this subject had to be brought about delicately— he didn't want to scare Matthew back into his shell.

"Hey Matt, what did you mean about 'getting away' this morning?"

But he was Alfred Fucking Jones, hero extraordinaire, and delicacy and tact could go kiss his ass.

He watched curiously as Matthew stiffened, some kind of edible root inches from his mouth. After a moment he forced it in, chewed and swallowed, reaching calmly for another. But Alfred could see the tenseness in his shoulders. When he still didn't answer, Alfred plucked the food from his fingers and ate it, grinning at Matthew's pitiful whining.

"Come on, cough it up. What did you mean?"

The Canuck pouted, indigo eyes glued fixedly on a very interesting clump of grass by his foot. When he spoke, his voice was muffled slightly by the knees he'd pulled to his chest. "It doesn't matter. It was a stupid thing to say."

Alfred could feel a frown creeping on his features, and he whacked Matthew upside the head with conviction.

"O-Ow! Wha… What was that? That was completely uncalled for!"

"Shut up," he growled, partly because he was pissed, and partly because he couldn't really think of anthing to say to that 'uncalled for' bit. Because it kind of was, but hell if _he'd_ ever admit that. "Now spill it, tree hugger."

Matthew glared at him, but the effect was lost by the pouting lip and askew spectacles upon his nose. After another moment of silent battle between the two, Alfred remaining unimpressed and waiting expectantly, the Canadian teen sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Fine, but it's stupid," he said grudgingly. His brother watched as violet eyes grew hazy and a hand absently went to the sore spot on the back of his head, "I was wondering if you and I would be able to get away. If we just… ran into the woods and never came back. Do you think we could do it…?"

Although he asked the question, Matthew didn't look over for an answer. Alfred was grateful; if he had turned, all he would have seen were blue eyes the size of saucers and a mouth hanging to the ground like an idiot. This wasn't what he had been expecting, at all.

"No one would miss us," Matt continued, eyes slowly going bright, "people disappear from the District all the time. The government wouldn't care. Arthur and Francis taught us well enough to make it out here by ourselves. We just won't go back this time. Then we'll never have to worry about getting robbed or murdered in the street, starving or freezing to death, living in that _hell hole_ every fucking day of our lives, none of it! And we'd never, ever have to take part in those sick, horrible Reapings ever again! Just you and me, Alfred, we could make it and be _happy_ and _free_ for once in our miserable lives, and…!"

He broke off, overwhelmed by his own vision, breath coming hard. His head whipped suddenly to the side, startling Jones as violet eyes focused on him; eyes so pleading, so broken and tortured that it broke his heart. Matthew made a small, choked sound, somewhere between a half-hysteric laugh and a strangled sob, and when he spoke it was softer than a whisper. "Because if I have to spend one more day in that God forsaken place, I swear I'll kill myself."

And Matthew immediately regretted it.

The look on Alfred's face then, as Matthew blurted those words, was as though his entire world had just slipped through his fingertips and shattered irreparably in the dirt, lost, forever. He looked _broken_.

"Oh, God, _no_ Mattie…"

At the endearment he hadn't heard in years, Alfred watched as Matthew finally broke, crumbling into sobs and launching himself at his brother desperately.

"M-Make me stop, Alfred… Please, I… I don't like talking, or-or _thinking_ things like this, but… But I can't st-stop…! I can't take it anymore. If I go back, I know I'll—! Please Alfie, I… I _can't_…!"

"Shh, shh, it's okay, Mattie… Don't cry, it's all okay…"

But they both knew it wasn't.

True, Alfred as well hated the lives they led with a passion; he had wanted to bash his brains out with a rusted metal pipe more than once himself. But this was serious. He was without doubt that Matthew would make good on his threats, and he was thoroughly nauseated at the sudden image of his twin leaning too far back at the edge of one of the lethal cliffs bordering their District. Of finding only his body, mangled and broken, of being _too late_…

His grip tightened around the slim shoulders protectively, eyes screwing shut as he warded off the urge to sob and retch at the same time and whispering the same two lying words over and over—_it's okay, it's okay_—now both for himself and Matthew. He couldn't, _wouldn't_ let that happen, not ever.

The boy was perched precariously upon a wire, teetering unsteadily as the thread began to snap, the slightest force being enough to dip him sideways and plunge him into the blackness. And all Alfred could do was hold his brother—the only one he had left—and hope it would be enough to keep him from falling.

It was a while before Matthew's racking sobs subsided, and a while longer before the horrible trembling stopped. He slumped listlessly beside Alfred, leaning limp into his side, resembling a broken, discarded doll. It was that look—not the weeping, not the begging, not the half-mad mumblings of suicide—it was the look of complete and total emptiness, hopelessness, in dull and listless indigo eyes that prompted Alfred to say that next thing. Because if there was one thing he couldn't handle, it was that look in his eyes. As though he were already dead.

"Let's go, Mattie,"

Matthew's thin body seized up instantly, breath hitching. Alfred grinned, his own words not quite processing yet (but that was probably for the better) and he nudged the other with his elbow.

"Come on. We'll pack our things and leave. I like the woods better anyway; it's the only place big enough to hold my awesome ego, right?"

There was a scuffling sound as his twin pulled away, disbelief the prominent emotion on his face. His eyes, still dewy, narrowed as the expression faded and morphed into suspicion, scrutinizing the American's features for sincerity. He must have liked what he found because soon a wide, genuine smile lit his face, and Alfred delighted in the spark of life that returned to his eyes.

"Really, Al? You're serious?"

His voice held hope again, and Alfred's cheeky grin softened, grew warmer, as he pulled Matthew in for another tight embrace and kissed the crown of his head. To show that yes, he meant it. Yes, they'd escape. Yes, he would always be there beside him, every step of the way.

"Yeah, idiot. I'm serious."

When Matthew's eyes filled with tears this time, it brought smiles to both their faces.

About ten minutes later, the duo was making their steady way back to the district for the last time. It had taken some discussion, but in the end they had both agreed that returning for a few hours was best, if only for the Reaping. It was the only time any form of attendance was taken throughout the year, and if they were discovered to be absent, they'd be caught and punished before they even left.

Hiding their hunting supplies in the hallowed tree for when they returned, they ducked deftly beneath the rickety old fence that constantly allowed them entry and exit from their district (a gate lovingly dubbed 'The Portal To Narnia' by Alfred, God only knew why). Alfred Found himself joking more and smiling brighter than he usually did in a week; partly because after Matthew's breakdown, the normally docile Canadian seemed terrified and anxious as hell, and desperately needed someone to calm and comfort him. The other reason being that he was, for once in his life, actually _wanting to smile_. The sensation was incredible, the sudden prospect of actually being free—a dream he'd lost sight of seven years before—had woken something in him, something _loud_ and _obnoxious_ and positively _wonderful_.

He even went to the extent of spending money on a snack in the market as they walked—a thick, warm slice of buttered bread. It cost a small fortune, but they wouldn't need money where they were going, and it was just a miracle that the American packed his money in his boots wherever he went.

Grinning as he did so, he split the treat and handed half to his twin, who smiled timidly and accepted the offer with shaking fingers. It was as they were joining the crowd making their way to the square that they passed a small boy and his sister, begging at the corner for scraps. Most just continued walking, ignoring the pleading looks and starved, groping hands. Some went out of their way to sneer and spit at the two, and both nineteen year olds felt anger build up simultaneously.

"Sickos," Matthew muttered darkly as he bent to wipe the little girl's face free of grime. Immediately his tone and expression softened as he knelt before her, wiping mud from her cheeks and giving gentle words of reassurance. Her brother tried to step in protectively, but Alfred caught his arm. "Whoa there, scamp. Matt wouldn't hurt a fly, promise. Here,"

Both children's eyes widened considerably as Alfred pressed his loaf of bread into the boy's small palm, and the girl gasped as Matthew did the same. The brothers smiled warmly as the kids faces lit with joy and they munched on their treats ravenously, waving happily to them when they had to part. The moment they were out of sight, the smile dropped from Matthew's face.

"How could anyone be cruel to them? They're just kids, they never did anything wrong…"

His brother said nothing, and silence fell between them until they had wormed their way into the thick of the crowd. At which point Alfred snapped his fingers and let out a small exclamation of one who just remember something probably only he could have forgotten.

"Ah, Matt, I think I forgot something" – Matthew's theory was confirmed – "I'll just run back and grab it, okay? I'll be back before the Reaping, no worries."

The Canadian rolled his eyes and sighed, waving the other off with a small gesture of the hand. His brother grinned sheepishly and flipped off a fake salute. "Thanks bro, I'll be right—"

He was cut off as a hand clamped firmly on his sleeve, halting his turning process. He blinked stupidly as a large wad of cash was pressed into his palm, looking incredulously from the money to the one who provided it.

Matthew, as it was, carried his money in his shoes as well, and now had given what very well might have been all of it to his twin. His violet eyes looked upon his brother with a sort of amusement, the smirk quirking his lips one meant for Alfred and Alfred alone. Although He wasn't sure if he should be flattered or insulted by this considering that the smirk was reserved for situations that said 'you, Jones, are a goddamn moron and I enjoy standing next to you because it makes me look smarter than fucking Einstein.'

After a moment of consideration, he decided on the former.

"Aw, Matt, how sweet of ya! Look I'm blushing!" To which Matthew shrugged and grinned wider.

"I'm not the one who needs it most." That cryptic line being said, he gave Alfred a last knowing _look_ before he once again waved him off dismissively. Only after his bounding footsteps faded away did Matthew allow his condescending smirk to shift into a fond smile; Alfred never changed. There was no doubt in his mind that his twin was currently running their combined money to the children they had met earlier.

Although he didn't like to show it, the self-proclaimed badass was a big softie at heart with a miraculous hero complex. He'd always been that way, as long as Matthew could remember – always helping others, sacrificing his meal and money for the first hobo that crossed his path. When they had moved to this district, the event had taken its toll on Matthew through crippling depression and a number of suicide attempts that he didn't like to mention. Alfred, on the other hand, had been effected in a far different way; yes, he had grown slightly jaded and cynical, that constant spark of optimism dulled and snuffed, but more than anything, his passion for justice grew.

The American would shrug it off whenever his brother brought it up, not-so-subtly changing the subject to some inane topic like how blue and pretty the sky was and holy shit Matt, doesn't that cloud look _just_ like a hamburger?

But despite his infuriating question dodging, Matthew had his own suspicions as to why Alfred acted the way he did. He supposed it was because of their situation; as though never seeing Arthur and Francis again wasn't enough, the new 'family' they had been dumped with was horrible. They were drinkers, abusive, and neglected the twins, and after two days of torture the brothers ran away. As expected, no one searched for them. They were forced to live on the streets, surviving on their own through any means necessary.

That first year on their own had been nothing short of hell. It was something they never spoke about, pretended hadn't even happened. It was during that time that Matthew's depression and introversion had taken hold, two things he still wasn't fully cured of. He had gone eight months without speaking a word to anyone, and had perfected the art of being completely invisible, not to mention that the few who _did_ notice him always thought he was his brother (which never seemed to end well for him). During that time, the only one that ever spoke his name, knew it even, was said twin.

And he knew how goddamn hard Alfred had tried to help him. From screaming to begging, the proud American had done it all and everything in between to keep Matthew from slipping over that stupid proverbial edge. He was not exaggerating in the least when he said that he would not be alive if it weren't for Alfred.

Matthew frowned deeply, and wrung his wrists till they were raw. The guilt was still there, still fresh; he had never forgiven himself for putting Alfred through all that. For making him put himself second for Matthew's sake; for forcing him to bear that terrible burden and grief, for making him smile brightly for Matthew even though he knew that his depression affected Al as well.

But somehow he'd managed it—to haul Matthew back from the depths, slowly, step by step, never once losing patience with him or leaving him behind. It was during this time that their traumatic lives took their effect on Alfred as well – in a very different, very unexpected way. As soon as he and Matthew had enough money, they found a small, scrappy place to live, but it was something. A few months after that, they could leave behind the worst jobs, and Matthew slowly began to speak again (the day he did, Alfred cried, even though he'd swear he didn't because crying was for pansies and Alfred Fucking Jones was no pansy so put that in your juicebox and suck it). After that, his natural inclination to help people exploded. He tried his best to hide it from his brother, but it quickly became obvious; he often didn't eat for days in order to give his food to the less fortunate. And nothing Matthew said (or tried to say; he was still regaining the will to speak at the time, and even now while he spoke much more, he was a clam to the rest of the world and spoke more words to Alfred in a day than he did to everyone else in two weeks – an unfortunate side effect that had stuck with him) could stop him.

Alfred had taken 'hero complex' to the max, and he didn't even seem to realize it. Matthew guessed it was due to the fact that he didn't want others to suffer the way they did. The Canadian chuckled softly and shook his head. "That sounds like Al…"

"What sounds like me?"

"Eh?"

Matthew nearly had a heart attack as a strong hand clamped on his shoulder, and he whirled to face his hysterically laughing brother. Face heating drastically, he gave his arm a hard smack.

"Ow!"

"That's what you get. Anyway, I was just talking about the announcer." He nodded up to the stage, where a young blond woman was cheerfully greeting the crowd. Alfred followed his gaze and frowned, looking incredulously from her to his twin.

"But… she's a _chick_,"

"No shit, Sherlock." He laughed outright when Alfred pouted and whined about how his masculinity could kick anyone else's masculinity's ass, glad that he'd bought his quick lie. But his mirth was short lived; watching the girl on stage, a ripple of unease climbed his spine, and he stiffened, before that unease turned into something much rawer, much worse.

"Matt?" Alfred had stopped complaining when he noticed his twin's sudden shift in mood, and his brow furrowed in concern. Hesitantly, he reached forward to tap his arm, only to have Matthew flinch away at his touch. The blond blinked in shock; his brother looked utterly terrified, eyes wide and darting, looking just like one of the abused dogs they'd rescued. He approached cautiously, eyes earnest and hands up, palms facing outward in a show of peace.

"Matt, it's me. It's Al; it's okay, no one's gonna hurt you." The other didn't seem convinced, eyes still wide, frightened and shifting wildly. When Alfred spoke again, his voice was soft, soothing. It was nearly lost in the buzz of the crowd, and somewhere in the back of Matthew's consciousness he noted how odd it was that Alfred was the one being quiet. "Look at me, Matt."

He didn't, optics glancing about frantically in an unnamed terror.

"Please, Mattie. Look at me."

Matthew jerked suddenly at that, staring at his brother in fear and confusion. His lower lip trembled as Alfred smiled gently. "It's alright, Mattie, you're safe, it's just me. You're safe," Slowly, and with faltering steps, Matthew shuffled over, breathing hard. As soon as he was within range, Alfred gently took his arm, guiding him over firmly until he was planted at his side. He placed a hand securely on his shoulder, giving a comforting squeeze; Matthew was trembling.

"What's wrong, Mattie?"

It was a moment before he spoke, voice quivering and not above a whisper. "I want to go, Alfred." The other blond made a squawk of surprise, but Matthew ignored it. "I want to leave. _Now_. I… I don't like th-this," He broke off when his voice cracked on the last word, failing him. Alfred said nothing; he knew that Matthew hated the Reaping and the Hunger Games with a burning passion, but this was different. This was primal terror, the same kind as earlier that day, as their first year here.

"How come?" He coaxed, as gentle as he could, and Matthew just shook his head.

"I don't like this. Something bad will happen. I know it, something awful," He turned to his brother suddenly, eyes pleading. "Let's go, Alfred. No one will notice. Please, I just want to get out, get back to the woods, before—" he cut off again, but his gaze didn't leave Alfred's face; his brother was frowning deeply, expression apologetic. He sighed, and shook his head slowly, heart tugging at Matthew's dejected look.

"We can't yet, Matt. They _will_ notice, you can see all the guards." When his twin began to shake again, he added hastily, "But don't worry. We _will_ get out. You've just got to wait a little longer, okay? Look, they're already starting." He gestured to the stage, grinning brightly, where the pretty young blonde was closing up her opening speech. This was, despite his intentions to reassure, clearly a bad idea.

Immediately, Matthew began to back away, stuttering incoherently, violet eyes globular. Alfred only had half a second to react; the guards would interfere if Matthew tried to run, and then they'd be in _real_ shit. Desperately, hoping the guards hadn't noticed yet, he grabbed at Matthew's sleeve, fingers finding purchase on the thin material. With a heave, he pulled his brother back, hands pinning his arms to his sides as he frantically tried to hold him still.

"Matt! Matthew! Get a hold of yourself!" he shook the teen roughly, and the struggles decreased. Only then did he speak quieter, calmer and more comforting, but he still did not release him for fear he'd try and bolt again. "Listen to me. We're going to get out, okay? You've just got to be patient. Five more minutes, that's it. Can you do that?"

Matthew's gaze darted to the stage. "B-But—"

"Please, Matt, for me. Can you?"

Matthew paused, shifting nervously and nibbling anxiously on his lower lip. Slowly, he nodded, but the tenseness hadn't left his mildly quaking frame. Alfred's expression softened.

"Will you tell me what you did before? What it'll be like when we're out. Describe it to me; I want to see it."

Carefully, he let go of Matthew's arms, one hand sliding down to entwine their fingers as he waited. The Canadian took a deep, shuddering breath, and closed his eyes. He squeezed Alfred's hand.

"We… We'll get out, and live in the woods. It'll be okay because no one will miss us, and we know the woods better than anyone."

"Damn straight,"

Matthew smiled a bit, but before he could continue the announcer's voice grew louder and more terrifying than ever before. "Okay! It's time for the first Reaping!" He froze instantly, indigo eyes snapping open and dancing with panic. He couldn't be here. He had to get out, had to run—

Someone squeezed his hand.

Looking up so sharply it hurt, he found himself staring into the smiling face of his brother, blue eyes gentle and warm behind wire framed glasses. His smile grew.

"Keep going, Mattie. Teller me what it's gonna be like. Don't stop, no matter what she says."

Drawing his shoulders back, setting his jaw, Matthew nodded, drawing strength from the warm, safe hand in his.

_Only five minutes, then we're free, forever. _"Out in the forest, we'll hunt for food and get water from streams. We'll sleep under the stars each night, and wake up whenever we feel like it in the morning."

"And the first one is…"

"We won't have to be afraid anymore, and no one will find us. We'll find our way back to our first district, and bring Arthur and Francis along…"

"Alfred F. Jones!"

"…and we'll never worry about the Hunger Games again, and we'll all be happy, together…"

"Next is: Matthew Williams!"

"…free, forever."

Matthew's hand had long since gone slack.

...

**Second part is over, as well as the Reapings. Next we go to the fun train ride- and two more Tributes. Any ideas? I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If so, or if you had any feelings whatsoever on it, then please, review! PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE! REVIEW! ...author is done shamelessly begging now, and bids all readers a fond and pathetic farewell.**

**There was a silence**


	3. Chapter 3

**WOO. Chapter three. A few days late, yes, but that's just because this was a total brat to type and clean up from my notebook where I had it. Once again, I apologize for the changes from the original Hunger Games story I took the liberty to make. If you're a legit Hunger Games fan, than you'll see them and I apologize to you. If you're not and are just enjoying this for the hell of it, then I won't point out my changes because it shouldn't make much of a difference to you guys anyway. On with the show, I hope you enjoy it!**

…

Inhale.

Exhale.

Slow.

Repeat.

Vash Zwingli closed his eyes, and focused intently on his breathing. In, out. In – hold – out.

It wasn't working. His nerves were still electrified, veins still on fire. The train jostled – again – and Vash had to brace himself against the wall of their compartment – again. He frowned, cursing blackly beneath his breath in his native tongue. Cursing the train, cursing Hetalia, cursing the Hunger Games and cursing the horrible, unforgiving world they lived in—

"Brother, are you alright?"

He was jolted from his fervent mental tirade against the world by the small, gentle voice to his left. There, Lili looked up at him, hair disheveled and dress torn, the ribbon in her hair no more than tatters. But she sat straight, legs crossed at the ankles and hands folded politely in her lap. Her bright, wide green eyes were proud and modest at the same time, and filled with concern for her elder brother. Vash had to suppress a chuckle; his Lili was a far better lady, a far better _human_ than any of those snooty Hetalia governesses, sneering down their crooked noses.

Yes, that was right. Lili. This was all for Lili, his little sister. He couldn't afford to snap now. He gave a curt nod, eyes forward.

"Yes, I'm fine. Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm alright."

For another few minutes they sat in silence, and Vash allowed her presence to calm him. She had always had this effect on him, ever since he first took her in. His shoulders would slowly relax, fists unclench. His breathing would slow and match hers as her warmth seeped over. And slowly, slowly, he would smile, however small. But something was wrong now. His sister was not smiling, not warm; she was shivering beside him, horribly. From, the corner of his eye, he could see her hands, so small, shaking in her lap.

Vash knew it wasn't just the cold.

Lili forced her teeth to stop chattering, twisting and fisting her hands in the tattered fabric of her dress. At one point, it had been of a warm mauve color, but time and the hardships of their poor lifestyle had been unforgiving. The dress (one she treasured, as her big brother gave it to her) was now faded and gray, hints of its original hue hard to find. Torn and dirty, but it had always been reliable, and was in far better condition than other things she had. She wore the dress proudly, and always would.

Currently, however, she couldn't stop twisting her fingers in the material, breathing slowly through her nose to calm down the way her brother taught her.

She wasn't afraid.

She wasn't afraid.

If Vash could be strong, than so could she. It was the very least she could do for him – he, her dear brother, who sacrificed everything for her. Who put his life on the line just to be with her. She couldn't burden him with her fear. She _wouldn't._

So she wasn't afraid.

Her fists clenched tighter as she shut her eyes, repeating the words in her mind like a mantra.

She wasn't afraid.

Her nails dug deeper into her palms, knuckles turning white from the strain.

She wasn't afraid.

She_ wasn't afraid._

She wasn't—

A hand, calloused and warm, closed over hers.

"You're going to make your hands bleed," Vash muttered, gently prying her tightly balled fists open, relaxing them with a comforting squeeze. Indeed, Lili's palms were pinpricked with angry red marks from where her nails had bitten into them. She ducked her head in shame.

"I-I'm sorry,"

From the corner of her eye, she could see him shake his head with a frown. "There's no need to apologize." For a moment more, his hand remained on hers, fingers entwined as he rubbed her abused palms with the pad of his thumb. She didn't realize she was smiling until it was wiped away when he pulled back, leaving her hands with a sudden chill as his warmth disappeared. And then, "Are you cold?"

Lili blinked up at him in surprise, eyes wide. She shook her head in the negative; she needn't trouble him further. As if he had read her thoughts, Vash scoffed and said, "It's not a problem. If you're cold, say so."

Her head was down again, shaking stubbornly from side to side, blonde locks shadowing the truth in her eyes.

A sigh. "You're lying." Without warning, and before she could retaliate, a weight was draped over her shoulders. She gasped at the sudden warmth, and tugged at the edges of the new garment to get a better look at it. Her green eyes, once again, went wide.

"B-Brother, this is _your_ coat!" She whirled to face him, expression one of concern, but he merely waved her worries away with a grunt.

"But-"

"It's fine, Lili. I'm feeling a little warm anyway."

Lili frowned, clearly distressed and less than convinced. "That's not true,"

He looked at her with a raised brow. "Perhaps but you're far more chilled than I am. That _is_ true; you're shaking like a leaf." When she continued to stare and fret over the coat, she reminded Vash of one of the many lost puppies Lili had happened upon and brought home _despite_ his warnings against strays (which he always ended up keeping until they healed anyway; but only because the dogs were hurt, _not_ because he wanted to see Lili happy and smiling. Because something like that would just be _preposterous_).

He sighed heavily, before jolting in surprise as Lili's weight shifted and leaned into his side. Alarmed, he opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, only to find her shrugging in defeat and pulling at the coat so it stretched over both their laps.

"If you say so, Brother. But please – let me help you, too. This way, we'll keep each other warm, so – B-Brother, what's the matter?"

Vash's face had gone from deathly pale to beet red in record time, piercing green eyes shifting rapidly. He swallowed thickly, and coughed awkwardly into his fist.

"N-Nothing. If that's what you want." He shrugged with one arm, a failed attempt at indifference. "Do what makes you happy."

Staring straight ahead, he looped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, blushing deeply as she snuggled more comfortably into his side, cheek pressed against his ribs so that when she spoke he could feel light vibrations in his chest.

"It does. This makes me happy."

He could hear the smile in her voice, and it took all the willpower he had in his stoic-expression arsenal to keep from grinning too.

"Good. That's… That's good."

A very small one managed to escape him anyway.

…

_What brought him back to himself was her ribbon._

_He had been frozen, motionless, immobile, both inside and out. His eyes were wide, and he couldn't even tell he wasn't breathing, because it didn't matter. Nothing but the name that had just been shouted over the crowd, lost to the wind, nothing but that mattered._

_Lili Zwingli had been chosen for the Hunger Games._

_He didn't feel it as her shaking hand slipped from his, didn't feel it as she drew herself up and tried to be strong, polite, ladylike as he'd always taught her. Didn't feel it as she stretched on her toes to kiss his cheek gently, didn't feel it as she whispered tearfully, "It's okay. Thank you."_

_Didn't feel it as she left his side to walk gracefully to the stage._

_It was then, as he numbly watched her grow smaller, farther away, that he noticed her ribbon. The bow fluttered in the breeze as she walked, standing out a defiant azure blue against her sunshine yellow hair. It was loose; somehow, somewhere along the way, it had been shaken near free, almost undoing his work when he'd done it earlier for her that day. Seeing it now, almost undone, that tiny, insignificant detail was what woke him, made him breathe again, brought him back._

_And he was running._

_"Lili!" She was almost to the stage now, so far away, and someone was screaming madly at the top of their lungs, "Lili!"_

_It was a moment before he realized it was him._

_"I volunteer! I'll go! I volunteer!" He grabbed desperately at his sister's hand just as she began to climb the steps, the words still spilling from his mouth like water, a stream he couldn't stop as their eyes locked. His voice was not above a whisper. "I volunteer… I'll go… Lili, I'll do it, I'll go…"_

_It was silent, no one moved, no one spoke, staring in shock. There hadn't been a willing tribute for the Hunger Games in decades; it was unheard of. The murmurs started in low, making the crowd restless and uneasy. What to do now? Protocol for volunteering had gotten dusty; no one knew if it was even allowed anymore._

_Vash and Lili were still frozen, eyes still connected, when Bella finally retook the microphone, struggling to steady both the crowd and herself._

_"Wow! That's the spirit, huh?" She laughed and continued on about the spirit of the game, sportsmanship, as Vash mechanically walked onto the stage, Lili in tow._

_He straightened his shoulders, ignoring the small, shaking hand in his. Bella turned to him, and he spoke, forcing tremors out of his voice._

_"My name is Vash Zwingli. I volunteer for the Hunger Games in Lili Zwingli's stead."_

_These words seemed to jolt Lili out of her stupor, and her free hand fisted in his shirt. "Brother, no! No, you can't!"_

_Vash didn't look at her. "Hush, Lili."_

_But Brother—!"_

_He turned on her, eyes hard but desperate as she'd never seen. He grabbed her shoulders, shook her, voice rough. "I said no, Lili! I can't… I _won't_ lose you!"_

_Without waiting to watch her eyes fill with tears, he turned to the announcer, sharp and determined._

_"I volunteer, is that clear? I will go for her."_

_For a moment, the girl's eyes looked pained, regretful. And in a flash, Vash knew she wanted to help them, but couldn't._

_"I'm sorry," She forced out in a voice she was struggling to keep clear and steady. "Once a name is drawn, that's final. But I'm sure we'll all wait anxiously for the next competitor. Now it's time for the second draw!"_

_Vash was no fool, and he caught on to her subtle hint, speaking clearly before she could even turn to the bowl of names. "Then I'll go with her. I volunteer as the second tribute."_

_At this, the crowd erupted. No one had been expecting this – to offer up oneself in place of another was radical enough, but then when you're turned down, spared, to keep trying? Keep going when you don't have to, when you could live? Unbelievable._

_In all the sudden confusion, Vash almost missed the small smile of appraisal Bella threw his way. After a moment, he nodded his gratitude, and the girl turned her attention back to the raucous crowd. Then there was a squeeze on his hand, and he looked down reluctantly._

_There was agony in Lili's eyes, green orbs trembling. But she said nothing. Slowly, she stepped forward, and wrapped delicate arms around his waist. She buried her face in his chest, and after a moment she began shaking. There was a growing dampness in his front as her small frame shook harder, hands balling into fists at the back of his shirt._

_Gently, as the world continued on without them, he wrapped strong arms around her, one across her shoulders while the other rested on the back of her head. He rubbed her arm soothingly, stroked her hair back, closed his eyes. He hated it when she cried._

_Only when he trusted himself to speak did he lean down and whisper in her ear, voice barely audible, "I won't lose you, Lili. I'm here. Always."_

…

There was a pleasant warmth at his side, and in his hands.

This warmth woke him, still spellbound by sleep, to glance groggily at his surroundings. Slowly his senses returned, his memory – he was in the train taking them to Hetalia, where they would be granted a month's rest before being shipped off to the Hunger Games. He and Lili, together.

With a sigh, he tried to raise a hand to rub the remaining sleep from his eyes, only to find it preoccupied with something else. Before he could consult this however, the door to their compartment slid open.

"Good evening, Mr. Zwingli, we'll be arriving in District Seven soon to pick up – oh my,"

A plump woman with shock pink hair (seriously, what the _hell_?) had very cheerfully entered their compartment, piping something that was more than likely unimportant, only to freeze at the sight of the Zwingli siblings, eyes wide. A hand went to her mouth to suppress a giggle, "Oh dear, am I interrupting?"

Vash counted back from one thousand to calm himself. He made it to nine hundred ninety eight.

What – do – you – want?" He ground out, voice and gaze acidic. Apparently, this woman was either immune to his death glares or just plain stupid (Vash was pushing for the latter), because she just _giggled_ again and twiddled her thumbs, looking as though she was regretting not having a camera.

(Honestly, Vash was regretting having to leave his gun back home because he so wanted to shoot this woman in the kneecaps.)

"_Well_?" He repeated, brows raised expectantly. The woman blinked, before nodding and (oh god, he just wanted his _gun_) giggling again.

"Yes, I was just told to inform you—"

"Keep your voice down. In case you couldn't tell, my sister is _sleeping_."

"Oh, of course. I was told to inform you that we would be making another stop or two before entering Hetalia. We simply _must_ pick up the tributes from District Seven, and they are going to have to share a compartment with you,"

Oh _joy_. Bonding time with the people he'd be killing. "I see. Thank you for the information. How long before we stop?"

"About ten minutes." The woman turned to leave, but paused to glance warmly over her shoulder, one last time. "I must say, you do have the cutest little sister." Vash could feel his face heating, but she continued with a soft smile. "You're a very good big brother to do what you did. You should both feel lucky to have each other."

And then she was gone, leaving a very flustered Vash with a very unconscious Lili. He scowled; damn Hetalia people. Glancing down, he could see Lili curled into him, fitting perfectly into his side. Her head rested gently in the crook of his neck, and her knees were drawn up so that she was practically in his lap. His eyes misted over; she was so _small_… How could someone as sweet, as pure as her be forced into something as horrid as the Hunger Games? It wasn't right. It wasn't _fair_.

His left arm, which had been protectively wound about her shoulders the whole time, tightened its hold minutely. His other hand was tangled with both of hers, and there his gaze rested. These hands… he'd always loved these hands. So small, so delicate, so innocent and kind. He slowly ran his thumb over her palms, her fingers. She was so gentle… these hands healed only, not destroyed. They were never meant for that. He'd taught these hands to defend themselves, but they were not killers, not to be stained with blood.

Very suddenly, he knew that he would fight in a hundred, a thousand bloody Hunger Games if it meant these hands would not have to. If it meant that they could stay safe and without blood stain. If it meant he could see her smiling face, and know she was happy.

But that was not possible, so he would have to settle for the next best thing.

"I swear to you, Lili," He breathed into her hair, fingers firming their grip on her hands, "I will protect you. No matter what it takes. You'll get out of there, and live a long, good life. I'll keep you safe. It's going to be okay, I swear it."

It was foolish of him to be promising these things to a sleeping girl, but he meant every word. He would protect her, even if it cost him his life. She would not have been happy to hear that last part, but he didn't very well plan on dying anyway.

He should wake her. He knew this; it wouldn't do for their competitors to see them this way. It would make them seem weak, like easy targets. What they thought of Lili was irrelevant – what they needed to understand was that he was not one they wanted to cross, and that laying a finger on Lili meant they had a death wish.

But a small part of him so wished they could stay like this. Just the two of them, no one else. That the train wouldn't stop, just roll on, forever. Keep going. And that the two of them could just remain there, safe, together.

"Lili," He murmured, shaking her shoulder with a sinking heart, "Lili, wake up."

"Hm…?"

Green eyes opened slowly, lazily expelling the lingering traces of sleep. "Brother…?"

Vash nodded, gently nudging her off of him. "We're going to be getting visitors. Others chosen for the Hunger Games."

At the mention of the Games, Lili straightened instantly, eyes wide. The sudden movement jerked the ribbon from her hair, and he sighed lightly, reaching to put it back in its place.

"I'm sorry," She said quietly as he redid the bow, both hands once again free.

"It's fine." He paused, before continuing in a voice that was warning and firm. "Listen, Lili. These people are our enemies. We do not get close to them. Don't trust anyone, alright?"

"Yes," She agreed softly, refraining from nodding lest she disturb her brother's work.

"Some will seem nice, they may try to win your trust, but you must remember – they are our enemies. The will all turn on you during the Games, and on each other. Is the ribbon secure?"

"Yes."

"It doesn't hurt?"

"No."

"Good. Anyway, don't speak to anyone unless I'm with you; in fact, try to refrain from speaking to anyone if you can. I'll point out the specific ones you should stay away from, but to be safe, be wary of everyone. Understood?"

She fingered the ribbon in her hair, admiring her brother's work in the window's reflection. "You tie it so well, Brother…"

"Huh? Ah, thank you, but focus Lili. The others—"

"I understand, Brother."

He cut himself off, looked to her in surprise. At first, he thought he'd misheard her – she just kept staring out the window at the slowing landscape. It looked cold out; there was snow everywhere. They had both seen snow before, but never in this great a quantity. Vash was about to continue when she spoke again.

"I understand, Brother. No talking to strangers, be on guard. Just as you've always taught me." She turned to him, eyes bright and warm. "I know. But I want…" She paused, took a deep breath as the train rolled to a slow stop, then continued, looking him dead in the eye. "I want you to care for yourself, too."

And before Vash could even think of a proper thing to reply, the door to their compartment slid open, and two Tributes stepped in.

The very first thing Vash did was get a faceful of _manchest_.

The larger of the two had come in without looking around quite properly, and in an attempt to make room in small space for his friend, he very nearly smothered Vash.

"B-Brother…!"

"Mmphgh!"

The tall man glanced to the distressed girl at his side, before starting at the sight of the young man he seemed to be crushing. He stumbled back in surprise, only to knock into his companion who'd just managed to get in. As he went tumbling and the first man made to catch him, Vash was left glaring and gasping for breath. He barely noticed Lili's concern as he glared heatedly at the crouching figure of his enemy. If he had his gun right now—

And then, having determined his small friend was alright, the man stood up.

Dear God this man was a _giant_.

He towered over the siblings, six foot at least, broad shouldered and strong. His expression was no less intimidating – icy blue eyes glared from behind wire framed glasses, and he looked as though he wanted the world and everything in it utterly _decimated_ for how badly it wronged him.

Lili squeaked beside him, and Vash scooted closer to her protectively. He straightened, eyes just as hard, because while yes, he was _impressed_ with the man's size and recognized him as a worthy opponent in the Games, he was not at all intimidated by him. He wouldn't risk letting himself seem like an easy target, and if that man didn't step out of his personal space _at once_—

"S'rry, 're you 'lright?"

Vash blinked, utterly bewildered, as a large hand took up his vision. Before he could really react, the man grabbed his hand and hoisted him up, dusting off his front and shoulders. The man hummed in approval, nodding once despite the complete lack of emotion on his face. "Th're. S'rry 'gain."

For their part, the two siblings were completely bowled over. What the hell? For the record, the man still looked like he wanted to kill them, but now Vash couldn't help but wonder.

Suddenly, a voice piped from somewhere behind the stoic tower. "Ah, sorry about all that. We're not very used to things like this – big trains and all." A boy with pale blonde hair and wide, kind violet eyes appeared from behind his companion, a bright smile on his face. He took off his white cap and shook out the snow, laughing lightly.

"We haven't introduced ourselves, have we? I'm Tino Väinämöinen from District Seven, and this is—"

"B'rwald Ox'n'st'rna." The giant – Berwald – mumbled, before gripping Tino's hand warmly in his. "This is m'wife."

…Talk about awkward.

"S-Su-san!" Tino was blushing to the roots of his pale hair, and he whacked Berwald's upper arm with his free hand. "We've been through this before, Berwald – I am _not_ your wife." But he was trying to suppress a smile, and if Vash didn't know better, he'd have sworn the (Swedish? He was guessing here) large Swede was pouting.

"I think it's very sweet," Lili said quietly from his left, and he looked to her in surprise. He pushed away the initial frown; she was just being polite, like he'd taught her. No harm here.

Tino smiled at her, and patted Berwald's hand warmly. "Yes, he is." He paused to give the object of their conversation a fond look, nudging him affectionately, before turning wide eyes to Vash and his sister.

"And you're Vash and Lili Zwingli, yes?"

Vash coughed into his fist a bit and held out a hand to each in turn, nodding curtly. "Vash Zwingli of District Five."

Lili shook hands politely. "Lili Zwingli, it's a pleasure."

"It's nice to meet you both," Tino greeted, and Berwald grunted his agreement with a nod.

"We saw your Reaping back home," Tino said after a minute of silence, when the train started to roll again. Vash nodded to show he heard, but otherwise didn't respond. The cheerful blonde across from him continued anyway. "We were very touched, what you did for your sister. What you _both_ did for _each other_ – it's not something you see often enough anymore."

Vash looked at him quickly, eyes hard and skeptical, but he saw sincerity in the other's face. He was being honest, and the Swiss didn't quite know how to take this.

"G'd thing y'did," Berwald put in, and a glance to his bright blue eyes could tell he meant it too, "Adm'r'ble."

"Thank you." He said flatly, hoping this would end the conversation. It didn't seem to be working, but just at that moment the door opened for the third time and they were called for dinner.

Which came in _courses_.

Vash was sickened thoroughly enough by the whole ordeal and how goddamn _expensive_ it all was – if there was one thing the elder Zwingli couldn't stand, it was useless spending – that he was fully able to conceal any emotion as he ate.

Lili, although he could tell she was properly awed by the sheer _amount_ and _grandeur_ of it, remained ladylike and polite, and Vash felt a swell of pride. Tino and Berwald as well ate with respectable manners, much to the surprise of the Hetalia officials accompanying them.

One pair of waiters continuously gushed about how _absolutely splendid_ it was to have tributes with table manners, that in previous years they'd had to deal with people who _inhaled_ everything like _pigs_. By the end of their meal, Tino was shaking from how upset he was, smile barely intact; Berwald was giving a glare of complete disgust and fury that positively sent servers running (Vash now understood that the glare he had received earlier held absolutely no malice whatsoever – but _this_ one even made _him_ want to run and cry); and Lili's hands were folded in her lap, knuckles taut, eyes hurt and trained on the ground.

It was this more than anything else prompted Vash to react the way he did when one waiter made the comment: "Why, last year, our tributes were so horrendous they even _died_ like animals."

Said reaction involved the enraged Swiss teen bolding from his seat, chair toppling backwards with a crash, arm drawn back to punch the waiter in the throat.

Berwald made it first.

A large, strong fist connected with an unsuspecting nose, and the waiter was sent rocketing backwards into a wall, glass cups in his hands shattering and flying projectile everywhere. Before the man had the time to gasp in surprise, long fingers closed around his throat and hoisted him up, pinning him to the wall behind him.

"Y'made Tino 'nd the little girl cry," He ground out between gritted teeth eyes murderous. " 'Pologize. _Now_."

In one swift movement Berwald had swung the man around and slammed his upper torso into the table, rattling the silverware there, and jerked his head so he was staring at a shocked Lili and Tino.

"I-I'm… s-sorry…" He squeaked, voice octaves higher than what it had been moments earlier. Berwald grunted and released him, watching as the man slid to the floor and scrambled back, beside himself with terror. He pointed a shaking finger at Berwald, who had turned his back on him in favor of wiping tears from Tino's eyes.

"Y-You're a _monster_," he laughed hysterically, and the Swede didn't even turn. "Not even that. You're _lower_ than an animal. You're a filthy, stinking tribu—"

The crunching of china underfoot was what stopped him from finishing the word, and he turned to see Vash standing over him, bright green gaze cold as ice.

"You!" The waiter grabbed at his pant leg, clearly not catching how Vash sidestepped and sneered in disgust, "You're reasonable; please, control that brutish _thing_—"

He was effectively cut off for a second time, this time by a heavy boot on his chest, pressing just hard enough to elicit a squeal of pain. Vash leaned down slowly, words quiet but thick with barely suppressed rage. "Berwald let you off easy. But I _swear_ that if you say _one more word_ about the tributes, about us – in fact, if we even see your face again, I will kill you with my bare hands."

The man's head bobbed fervently, and he scurried away the moment the boot was lifted. Vash quietly retook his place next to Lili and finished off the last of his dessert – despite how severely his stomach protested to such a sudden, rich meal, he hated wasting, and he would be _damned_ before he vomited in front of Lili – as more servers scuttled in and out to clean the mess, this time completely silent.

Berwald, after being sure that Tino was okay and giving a concerned hum in Lili's direction, to which she quickly assured him she was fine, sat down again and followed Vash's example, eating calmly as though they _hadn't_ just made a man shit his pants.

The Swiss teen had to admit, as he silently polished his plate, his respect for the two sitting across from him had grown exponentially. He certainly didn't want to say so, but his two 'enemies' were definitely good people.

At that moment, Berwald lifted his clear gaze, and Vash couldn't look away fast enough. He could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks; to get caught staring was embarrassing enough, _but he couldn't tear his eyes away_.

The tall man was openly staring back now, expression blank (at least, Vash _assumed_ it was blank; at first glance he looked to be absolutely livid but he couldn't be sure) as his spoon hovered inches from his mouth. The smaller blonde was about to avert his gaze elsewhere when the man across from him gave a simple gesture that left Vash wide eyed.

The corner of his mouth, just barely, quirked upwards, and he gave him a solemn nod. That was it – no words, no signs. Just a barely-there nod and a maybe-smile before he returned to eating. That, and Vash could have sworn he saw a glimmer of admiration in the ice blue eyes.

He had no idea how, but the two groups had somehow managed to gain a wordless respect for each other.

The rational part of his brain told him no, relations to the two you will be forced to kill is a _bad thing_, but he couldn't stop the small smile from tweaking his own lips.

Before the silence could reign any longer, Tino began piping cheesy jokes one after the other, clearly determined to keep the atmosphere comfortable. After a quick glance to Vash, who gave a barely noticeable shrug of indifference (which Lili knew to be a 'yes' when it came to her brother) the small girl indulged the platinum blonde, the polite little smile growing brighter and more real.

Each joke was equally horrible, but Lili was clearly enjoying it, and that was good enough for him. In fact, the whole situation was rather comical; almost endearing, but _that_ would be _ridiculous_. Vash Zwingli, serious, neutral (because shooting any and everything that crossed him without discrimination was a form of neutrality, dammit), wary and careful Vash Zwingli, was _not_ enjoying their company. He wasn't, he wasn't, he _wasn't_—

"Alright then, time to watch the recap!"

More Hetalia officials burst in, busily cleared the table before bustling them into another cramped room. Vash frowned and shook off the many flitting hands trying to shove him through the door, taking Lili's hand and leading her through protectively.

The four were sat on two small couches, one for Tino and Berwald and the other for the siblings. Before them was a large screen implanted into the wall. As they watched, it flashed to life, glowing magnificent colors and pictures. A television. They had them back in the districts, but most of the ones there were very small, and only owned by the richest few. There was one huge one in the middle of the square, large and imposing, but that was only used during the Hunger Games and Vash and Lili tried not to watch those.

"Wow…" Tino's eyes were wide as he stared at the screen, in total awe, "It's so _bright_…"

For a moment, the Swiss competitor wondered if the young man across from him was putting on a veil of feign innocence to win over the Hetalia agents, because they certainly were taken with him. They cooed and patted his head, but the thought was dismissed too quickly for Vash's liking. He was used to being wary, suspicious of his surroundings and the people in them; it was what got him and Lili through their harsh district alive. Never trust anyone, always assume the worst.

But with these two, he was near positive that Tino wasn't faking it, that Berwald wasn't trying to gain his trust to stab him in the back later. Good, honest people. And this certainly unnerved him.

"These are the Reapings of all twelve districts," a woman to his right trilled, clicking the volume up on some small remote he couldn't see. "You'll be seeing the other competitors for the first time here."

There was a swelling tightness in Vash's chest as he watched the flashing screen, but he _refused_ to register the emotion as fear. It wasn't that he was weak – he knew he could be a deadly killer and stood a fair chance in the Games, especially if he had a gun – it was that all the other opponents clearly weren't weak either.

The Games were never fair; it was a fact that every member of every district knew, and, more than likely, so did the people in Hetalia. The Reapings were supposed to be random, yet every year there were only a few women. This year there were so far only two drawn – Lili being one, and as Vash just saw, a very pretty young woman named Elizaveta paired with a cheerful young Spaniard named Antonio – and he doubted there would be any more. And _as it happened_, all the men that were chosen just turned out to be strong (to make for more exciting, violent and bloody Games because that action was _priceless_ in the capital), and attractive (to please the crowd aesthetically).

Coincidentally, of course.

And this year was no exception. Vash swallowed thickly as he watched the different competitors take the stage, the only constant being the bright face of Bella, and Lili squeezed his hand tightly.

Some stood out, if only for their impressive size, comparable even to Berwald. A large Russian by the name of Ivan Braginski, in particular, with a kind smile that just seemed so horribly wrong on him and sent shivers rippling up and down Vash's spine. Only when the large man turned and gave a hearty slap on the back to the one behind him did Vash actually notice his partner. Contrary to Ivan's unnervingly calm exterior, the second tribute looked completely awash with shock, bright green eyes darkened with something akin to despair. His chocolaty brown hair fell limply to his chin, framing an unhealthily pale face. Toris Laurinitis, that was his name. And by the look of it, he and the Russian twice his size knew each other.

Watching as the shaking brunette tried for a smile for the sake of a small group of friends that had followed the pair to the stage but hadn't climbed up, Vash felt a swell of sympathy. This youth seemed genuinely kind, good, and that was just by looking at him. A glance to the others told him they felt the same. Once again, it was that disconcerting lack of mistrust, and the blonde frowned; he just seemed so docile, so unthreatening. Like he was too good to be part of this horrible event. Like Tino and Berwald. Like Lili.

_No_. Vash steeled himself and mentally shook away the bothersome thoughts. It didn't matter whether it was fair or not. What was done was done, and that was it.

An instant later and Bella was up on another identical stage, but the names she shouted was different – this time, "Lili Zwingli!" was boomed across the expanse of the crowd, the silence thick with dread. The camera focused in expertly on a small girl of fourteen, flitting bravely to the stage, ribbon fluttering.

And then there was Vash, shouting and calling, desperately shoving people aside. It was a strange experience, watching himself as he rushed for the stage – what was the phrase? 'Out of body', that was it. He saw himself step before his sister, expression determined as he declared he would be joining her, composure regained. The last thing the camera caught before flicking away to the next Reaping was the quiet embrace the siblings shared, and then they were gone.

Vash could feel the blood rush all the way to the tips of his ears as Tino smiled his way, Berwald nodded, and Lili squeezed his hand. He coughed into his free fist and focused intently on the next pair mounting the stage; two men in their late twenties named Heracles and Sadiq. By the looks of it, the two did not get along well, and were exchanging threats by the time the next district took the screen.

Cheerful as ever, Bella greeted the crowd and drew Tino's name from the large bowl. Without missing a beat, a loud, deep voice called out into the night, "M'goin' too!"

It wasn't a suggestion, it was a statement. A very _firm_ statement, the kind that had undertones of 'disagree with me and your life will meet an untimely end'. Sure enough, the imposing figure of Berwald took the screen, Tino frozen in shock and horror beside him.

That didn't last long.

It was then that Vash learned of Tino's volatile temper. Berwald hadn't taken two steps to the stage when Tino drop kicked him. The taller man was sent flying, crashing ungracefully to the ground with a five foot mass of pissed off Tino towering over him.

"What the _fuck_ are you thinking, Berwald? The Hunger Games? What are you, _stupid_?"

Berwald grunted incoherently as he began pulling himself up, only to receive a powerful fist to the jaw. Once again he was propelled backwards, back cracking against the front of the stage. The crowd, Bella, and the viewers (Vash included) could do nothing but watch in stunned silence as Tino rushed up to him, grabbed him by the color and hauled him up, eyes burning.

"Take it back," He hissed lowly, teeth bared. He seemed feral, and it was all Vash could do not to flinch at the intensity of his glare. He shook the man before him roughly.

"Did you hear me? I said _take it back_, damn it! You're _not_ coming with me!"

Berwald seemed unfazed, and shook his head once, expression blank.

Tino was livid. "Berwald, so help me, take it _back_!"

Slowly, the Swede straightened, and shook his head again. " 'M goin' with you."

"No!" Tino shoved him brutally, "No! You're not coming!"

" 'M goin'."

"You're _not_! I don't _want_ you with me!"

" 'M _going_, Tino."

"You're—!" The small Nordic brought a fist down on Berwald's broad chest, and his eyes were wide and desperate now. "You _can't_—!"

"I am."

Tino hit him again, and again, but they lacked the original power. He was shaking and sniffling, words broken. "Y-You _can't_, Berwald… P-Please, I don't… I d-don't want you to d-die…!"

Without hesitation, Berwald reached forward and gathered the trembling frame into his arms, humming quietly, soothingly. After a moment, he gently led a still hiccupping Tino up to the stage, mumbling words in Swedish to him that Vash couldn't understand.

By the time they reached Bella, whose eyes were still wide with bewilderment, Tino had regained most of his composure. Berwald addressed the host gruffly, snapping her back to attention.

" 'M B'rwald Ox'nst'rna. M'wife 'nd I'll be in th'Hunger Games."

At that, both smaller blondes blinked up at him, one with dewy eyed surprise and the other just in confusion, To Bella's credit though, she charmingly rolled along with it, quickly bringing the atmosphere back to its previous state.

One would have to pay close attention to catch the way Tino slipped his hand into Berwald's, a small, teary smile on his face as he pulled him down and whispered in his ear. The words were foreign, Finnish if he had to take a stab, so Vash didn't understand – but he could guess.

_"Minä rakastan sinua."_

Vash stole a glance at the pair on the next couch. Tino, colored scarlet with embarrassment, was squeezing Berwald's hand tightly, and leaning heavily into his side. As for the large Swede himself, his face remained stony and expressionless, but his eyes were glowing and bright with a tender warmth as he gazed down at the smaller one beside him.

And Vash wanted to smile.

"He said he got his inspiration from you, you know."

Vash blinked in surprise, struggling to focus in on what Tino was saying. "E-Excuse me?"

Tino smiled. "When he colunteered to go with me. He said it was because of what you did for your sister."

"A-Ah…" Well, _this_ was uncomfortable, "Um. Thank you, but…" He drew a blank, scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly. He was greatful when Lili chimed in with: "I'm sure Berwald would have done it anyway."

Tino laughed lightly, pressing further into Berwald's slide. His violet eyes were sincere. "Even so, thank you both."

After a second Vash recovered from his initial shock, cheeks tinted pink, and nodded once before returning his attention to the screen. The Eighth District Reaping was about to end with a nearly identical pair of Italian brothers, one cursing colorfully, while the other tried to remain optimistic, but both were ashen and shaking.

The older Zwingli frowned deeply – again with the _sympathy_. Soon the brothers were gone, and the Ninth District stage appeared. Bella, for the ninth time, dove into the promotions for the Games. By the time she actually got to the name drawing, the crowd was swaying with anticipation and anxiety.

Bella withdrew the tiny white slip with a flourish, and read clearly, "Mathias Kohler!"

Vash continued watching with little interest as a tall young man, about the same size as Berwald, strode confidently to the stage, grinning from ear to ear. But, Vash noticed his hands were shaking at his sides. What he failed to notice was the way the two in the seat beside him stiffened the moment the name passed the announcer's lips.

Shaking Mathias' hand enthusiastically, Bella returned to the bowl and read out the next name:

"Lukas Bondevik!"

A slight, serious looking boy floated up to the stage, shaking out of the grip of the one assumed to be his brother. The tribute had pale, straightforward blue eyes, and a stoic expression that could match Vash's and probably beat it, he had to admit.

He calmly drifted onto the platform, accepted Bella's congratulations with an emotionless nod, and only showed the slightest flicker of irritation when Mathias picked him up and swung him round, laughing loudly. He got a firm punch to the gut from the smaller one for it.

Clearly the two knew each other and were close and Vash might have smiled at the display if not for the sudden squeak to his side.

Glancing over, he was shocked to find that Berwald and Tino had both gone completely rigid, both sets of eyes wide and disbelieving. Berwald sat straight and stiff, jaw clenched and lips pulled downward ever so slightly. Tino's eyes had become globular, one hand up and covering his mouth. Slowly, he lowered it, voice barely even a whisper.

"M-Mathias…? Lukas…?" His violet eyes filled with tears, and he turned desperately to the stock-still man beside him, a hopeful smile forming. "Berwald, can it be? Is it really them…?"

The man didn't answer, eyes still glued to the screen despite the fact that the two had already disappeared.

"C'n't be…"

"Do you know those two?" All three tributes looked to the last in surprise. Lili watched them with concern in her eyes, waiting quietly. Tino recovered first, sniffling with a laugh and wiping at his eyes.

"Yes, we do. Berwald and I lived most of our lives in District Nine, and those two…" He chuckled and shook his head, pulling the snowy white cap down in order to run a hand through pale blonde locks. "They and Lukas' little brother, Ice, they were like brothers to us. We were a family," His voice broke on the last word, and Berwald wrapped an arm around him comfortingly.

"I never thought we'd see them again." The hand returned to his mouth, and his eyes closed as he tried to suppress tears, and came away with a shuddering gasp. He forced a smile and stood, expression caught somewhere between joy and pain. He excused himself and hurried out, Berwald quick to follow.

As the siblings exchanged glances, Vash felt some Unknown-But-Very-Irritating force pull at his heart strings, because really, what else was more painful than that? Not only being forced to fight _one_ person you love, but two? He found that he couldn't imagine it, no matter how much he tried, because to him Lili was everything, no one else.

Maybe when he was younger he'd have felt differently, but no. Not anymore; there was no way that he could even begin to replicate the emotional turmoil those two must be going through. And this brought on a sense of sympathy to compensate, which was quickly becoming his least favorite word.

He couldn't help but wonder, however. Surely it was no coincidence for all the tributes to have relations. Whether they were brothers or enemies, they all seemed to know each other well. Out of the twelve duos there was maybe only two sets of strangers, and he found himself doubting that Tino and Berwald were the only ones in this situation, of knowing and being able to do nothing when it came to fighting people they cared for. For fist clenched unconsciously; how much worse could it get? How much more _hell_ could those damn Hetalia Game makers, those bloodthirsty viewers and officials, the bastard President _himself_ put them through?

How much more would they have to _suffer_?

"Brother, look,"

Lili was peering out the window, wide eyed, as the train sped to a growing dot on the horizon. Still inwardly seething, he scooted over, and gazed curiously (if not grudgingly for he already knew what he'd see) out the glass—

And his breath was stolen from his lungs.

The capital was nothing short of brilliance. Shining, bright and stunning; he couldn't even work a scowl onto his face he was so blown away. His stomach rolled and dropped in a way he was most unfamiliar with – a distinct feeling of anticipation, of excitement, of child-like wonder.

It made him nauseous.

Because wrapped within and around them all was a sickening, terrible feeling of foreboding, weighing him down as though an anchor had been tied to his ankle and he'd been pushed into the middle of the ocean and told to swim for shore.

His previous thoughts floated and roiled back to his mind, demanding attention viciously: how much more will we have to suffer?

As the city grew steadily greater and more miraculous, Vash had the sinking feeling that they would soon find out.

…

**FINALLY. Holy crap, if that was not a huge-ass chapter. I don't even know, guys. The Zwingli siblings and two of the Nordics? WHAT? I just… Don't even ask. Just… Just don't.**

**Next chapter is similar to this one, a train ride for four different Tributes. I know it's slow going, guys, but hopefully it'll be entertaining enough to keep you guys reading and REVIEWING. Because, like the pathetic author I am, I can only continue this with reviews. I'm not like those cool writers who write for themselves and keep going even if their awesome story isn't getting the reviews it deserves. Unfortunately for whoever cares, I kind of have that problem where I immediately think whatever I wrote sucks and like a noob need strangers to tell me otherwise. Because… that's… totally normal. Yeah. XD**

**ANYWAY. Aside from my extreme ranting: thanks for sticking with this uber long chapter, PLEASE REVIEW, and hopefully you'll all still be here in a few days when I post the next chapter! Any guesses who the next pairs will be? I'll give you a hint: the first pair you meet is NOT any of the ones briefly mentioned in the recap Vash and co. watched. The second pair is. XD**

**There was a silence**


	4. Chapter 4

**SO. CHAPTER FOUR. I can't believe I'm still updating this on time. XD Thanks to everyone who left such wonderful, heartwarming reviews! I appreciate and love them all, and if I haven't replied to one of your reviews, then I AM SO SORRY I MISSED IT AND THANK YOU PROFUSELY HERE. Alright, so my birthday passed a few days ago, and I'm gonna be a total tool and ask for you guys to REVIEW this chapter for my present. They'd be much appreciated!**

**About this chapter: The size is daunting, I'll admit, but I really like this chapter. AND it's the final introductory chap, (which isn't to say you won't meet everyone else in due course ;p) and then we actually get to the capital. Woo. Four new tributes here, as well as a cameo by a noncanon character who I have an unprecedented soft spot for. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Disclaim'd.**

**...**

Friends.

_Friends_.

Friends!

No matter how he said it, the word never sounded quite right.

This was probably because Ludwig von Beilschmidt did not have any. He'd never been very social, or talkative. His district was a vicious one; kill or be killed. Unreliable things like 'friends' did not go such a long way, and he would prefer to focus on more useful, efficient things – like hunting, discipline of both the body and mind, getting money, beer, etcetera.

Things that ultimately led to the survival of each and every day.

But mainly beer.

Which, thank God, there seemed to be a never ending supply of on this damned train. Draining back what was left in his third glass, he requested another. Years of drinking had built up his alcohol tolerance levels; now towering with muscles the size of an adult's throat, he could proudly drink anyone under the table.

Or, to be more precise, anyone with _one_ exception. The only person he could never beat in a drinking match, no matter the liquor or the state they were in, no matter the age. The only one he knew he could count on simply for the fact that they'd always been together their whole lives, and if Ludwig had a friend then he was it.

"Tell me, West – have you ever seen anything more _awesome_ than this train? Other than me, of course,"

Laughing raucously, Gilbert Beilschmidt shoveled more food and demanded a refill on what must have been his sixth beer. Ludwig's elder brother by four years at twenty four, he was the closest thing the German had to that odd, unfitting word. If he was being honest, he couldn't remember a time without the vibrant silver-haired teen, and although he knew certain that if it were necessary he could survive quite well on his own, he simply could not imagine a world without his narcissistic comments and loud, bright laughter in it (not that he'd ever tell Gilbert that). Which was probably why he was glad for the train that sped them to Hetalia, to the Hunger Games, at that moment.

Because Gilbert, self-proclaimed 'awesome-est, sexiest Prussian in all of history so suck it', Ludwig's drinking buddy, sparring partner, immature older brother, his _constant_ – was dying.

Gilbert was dying.

"Oi, West! What's with the long face?"

The smaller man was pushing a finger into his nose then, rd eyes glowing as Ludwig swatted the hand away with a thinly veiled scowl of frustration. "Probably because you have neither manners nor respect for one's personal space. Are you done yet?"

Gilbert flashed a crooked grin at him before tearing a chicken leg away and chomping into it, speaking around mouthfuls. "No fuckin' way, man. I'm eating till I'm sick – and then I'm gonna eat some more while these chumps—" He forked a thumb at waiters who glared daggers, "—clean it up."

He smiled sweetly at the muttered 'goddamn animal' from one of the servers, flipping off his middle finger in a false salute. "Love you too, sweetheart,"

Only Ludwig caught the disgust and hatred glinting in his ruby orbs.

It was true that Gilbert ate like a pig – "Why should I care what jealous idiots think of me? Let them stare if they want, I'll just kick their asses later!" – but if he wanted to, he could very well be civil. It was hard to fathom, but he _did_ have a reserve of manners proper for the general human being; Ludwig, who had a penchant for mashing his food into small bits before eating, was polite with his meals out of habit, had bore witness to the rare occasions where Gilbert used some form of etiquette.

In this case, however, he could not blame his brother in the slightest for devouring his meal the way he did, because the brothers did not eat like this. It just didn't _happen_. They could barely make it by on what they did have, so it was no surprise that they had wanted to practically inhale the meal that could have fed them for a solid month.

The problem was, as course after course was brought out, they had both managed to hold onto some semblance of table manners – in the beginning. What brought about Ludwig's older brother's present behavior was the looks from the Hetalians. The whispers. The sneers and disgusted glares that didn't need words to convey the hateful emotions there. It was when one snickered a little too loudly to another, "Well, at the _very least_ they know how to use utensils, the beasts."

While Ludwig then proceeded to mutilate the silverware and glare with the heat of one trying to make the other spontaneously combust, Gilbert snarled and ate the rest of his meal with only his fingers. He didn't stop there; he wiped his hands on the table cloth, chomped obnoxiously and chewed loud and openmouthed, and guzzled his beer back, belches going unchecked (although he probably would've done those last two anyway). He tossed his trash behind him haphazardly, smirking when a waiter would stiffly bend to retrieve it. And while Ludwig would scold him lightly and kick his shin beneath the table when he waved greasy fingers in his face, he really couldn't stop the miniscule grin from touching his lips. Let it never be said that Gilbert didn't have his moments of devious genius. Rare, and Ludwig would never say otherwise, but sometimes he had them nonetheless.

Gilbert was loud, intrusive, annoying, narcissistic and a great many other things, but he was Ludwig's brother. He wouldn't _let_ him die.

It had started to show when Ludwig was twelve. At sixteen, Gilbert worked in the mines for extra money, his younger brother determined to follow suit in only a few short months. While his brother was out working, he would take care of the house – wherein he developed his slightly anal tendencies – and prepare a meal of cold mush scrounged together from haggling in the market and bits of food from previous days.

He'd been taught the art of trading by Gilbert (despite the man's preference of buying things straight up or simple hunting), who had in turn been taught by their remarkably young and handsome grandfather. He had died about three years prior, leaving two small children to defend for themselves.

Even at twelve, Ludwig could tell they'd been taught well to survive by their late guardian, otherwise he was sure they wouldn't have survived this long.

The day Gilbert came home different, Ludwig had been smashing together what could be assumed to be roots, herbs, some form of animal intestines (the vendor had insisted it was horse stomach, but the child had his doubts) and potatoes.

_Potatoes_.

The staple of their district, and both brothers favorite food (aside from wurst, which he hadn't had in _years_). While their district was known for its many mines, a maze of underground tunnels, they were equally infamous for their stock of _endless potatoes_.

He remembered smiling at the taste of the brutally mashed potatoes – he could smile more when he was by himself – and thinking that their meal that night was going to be one of their better ones.

The door creaked open as he was wrestling the sticky substance into a cracked clay bowl, and he didn't look up as he heard the familiar clunking of heavy boots resound behind him. While he did register the noise as a sound that could only be described as exhausted, he didn't question it.

"Look at the mess you're making," He scolded when a pair of sooty work boots came into view. "Going and tracking dirt all over the clean floors. How many times have I—" He was cut off by a firm hand on his shoulder.

It wasn't Gilbert's.

Ludwig looked up for the first time since the man's arrival, to find himself staring into a grime-covered face that certainly did not belong to his brother. Immediately he scrambled, backing away two quick steps and grabbing the fork from the potatoes, brandishing it menacingly. His expression had gone guarded, but his eyes flashed with nothing but anger.

"Who the hell are you? What're you doing in my house? Talk _now_, or so help me they'll find your body unrecognizable with nothing but fork punctures," He raised the utensil as if to prove his point, and the man raised his hands and stepped back because this kid was seriously the _only_ twelve year old who could make a dull _fork_ look that threatening.

"Easy, lad," The man chuckled, raising a hand to run through his dusty hair. Filth showered down, and the boy was surprised to see bright, flame red locks beneath the ash. Shaking more out – ad onto his once clean floors, damnit – he could see dancing emerald eyes and then the godforsaken bushy red eyebrows that simply _demanded_ all his attention.

"Oi, down here, boyo." The man snapped his fingers before his forehead, effectively blocking out his two scarlet caterpillars and bringing Ludwig back to reality. The man smirked.

"Gorgeous, ain't they? Anyway, your brother asked me to come." He flicked out a cigarette and lit it, and the twelve year old had to admit he was impressed by the fluidity of the motion. Maybe it was a skill gained in the mines – Gilbert was the same way. The man took a long drag before speaking again, exhaling coolly though his nose as he drawled, "He said he'd be working late, 'nd not to wait up. Wanted me to come over an' tell ya, yeah?"

"What did you get for it?"

The man started, coughing a bit in surprise. " 'S-Scuse me?"

"What did my brother give you to check up on me?" He repeated flatly, one brow raised as he awaited a reply. The redhead blinked at him incredulously.

"What makes you say that? I couldn't have done this outta the goodness o'me—"

"Heart? No." Ludwig deadpanned, lowering the old utensil with an eyeroll. "We're district men, my brother and me – and you too. We don't _do_ things for free."

A beat.

The redhead burst out laughing, much to Ludwig's chagrin. He folded his arms across his chest and waited for his guest to get over it, forcing his pales cheeks to remain neutral through the humiliation by sheer will power alone.

"Are you done?"

The man swiped at his eye as his mirth died down, and he looked the boy over once. Suddenly he strode forward, surprising Ludwig as he ruffled his hair with a blackened hand.

"Get off me!" He growled, glaring up between long fingers. The man laughed again, tussling the blonde locks some more.

"You're a clever lad, aren't'cha? Gil's spot on with ye,"

Ludwig looked mortified. "My brother _talks_ about me?"

"Not to worry, kiddo, only the positive things. Talks and _talks_ about his amazin' kid brother. Gets fuckin' annoying, actually, but he's right."

When the twelve year old did nothing but glare and blush scarlet, the miner chuckled and went again for his smokes. He stomped out his old one casually, not taking notice of Ludwig's indignant glare, and lit himself another while sliding a third behind his ear.

"You're brother gave me these," He said tossing the pack back and forth between his hands. Ludwig couldn't help but raise a surprised brow' he knew that in other districts a cigarette would be a blessing, but here, they were more or less an abundance. It wasn't hard to swipe a pack or two if you worked in the factories like Gilbert did as well, so if this stranger was willing to do Gilbert a favor for them, then they had to be good.

He was efficiently snapped from his reverie as a small object came hurdling for his face. He floundered for a brief moment to catch it, glaring daggers at the laughing redhead when he finally got a firm grip. He lowered his gaze to examine the thing in his hands and nearly choked in shock.

"But I like ye, boyo," The man said in an offhand manner with a stretch. "So you and your brother can keep those cigs. I've not the faintest idea how he got his hands on _those_ anyhow."

Ludwig didn't answer. He was too preoccupied with the sticks of tobacco in his palm, because he was wondering too, how the hell had his brother managed to get these? The packaging alone was priceless, not to mention the smokes themselves. They were Hetalia cigarettes, top of the line, something lowly districts like theirs weren't permitted to make. The long sticks inside were all black, tipped with silver, and were even _scented_, for God's sake. He glanced up skeptically.

"What do you want for these?"

The miner grinned and ruffled Ludwig's hair again, before winking and turning to lilt away coolly.

"I'll put it on ye tab," He called over his shoulder with a nonchalant wave. "You're brother should be back later."

Ludwig really didn't know what had possessed him at that moment, because suddenly he was standing in the doorway, watching the miner walk away with his hands in his pockets, and calling out, "What's your name?"

The redhead paused, turning his head just a fraction. He grinned.

"It's Scott," He called back and flipped off a salute. "I'll be seein' ye." And then he was gone, leaving Ludwig to wonder alone on his doorstep. Which… probably wasn't very safe, so he stepped back inside quickly and closed the door after him.

That had been the first time and only time Ludwig wondered if, perhaps, he and Gilbert had made a friend of the cool redheaded Scotsman. He wondered it as he ate his dinner alone that night, wondered it as he set Gilbert's bowl out for him when he got back. But as the night wore on, time crawling into the dark, early hours of the morning, the thoughts began to fade, in favor of ones including his brother.

Gilbert shouldn't have been taking this long. He had worked late before, but never so that it was nearly four in the morning. Then again, the boy reasoned as he tried to quell his sudden worries, he also never sent someone to _tell_ him he'd be late. So that meant something, didn't it? He was out late, but he was fine. He was _fine_.

It was another hour and Ludwig was nodding off when the door finally creaked open. His head snapped up, and the first thing his eyes locked on to was a familiar shock of silver hair, glowing bright in the dark gloom.

A sigh escaped him in a rush of air, grogginess temporarily expelled by relief. He stood smoothly and began walking toward his brother, mouth opening to speak – only to have the words fail him as his gaze met the red one of his brother's.

"…Gilbert? What's wrong?" Ludwig paused a few steps before him, frowning in disapproval (and concern, but his brother needn't know that). The self-proclaimed Prussian was swaying uncertainly, ruby optics so normally sparking with life now clouded and far away. Slowly his gaze locked on the boy before him; a flicker of recognition there passed over his soot-covered face before he forced a familiar grin to his lips, teeth glinting white.

"Hey, West," He murmured, voice strained. He staggered forward a step to ruffle his hair the way Scott had, and for once Ludwig didn't pull away. When Gilbert's eyes grew blank and he began to stagger again, the blonde gripped at his wrist, mouth setting in determination.

"You're sick," He said, gently prying the hand from his hair and pulling him away from the doorway to shut it with his toe. "You've got to go lie down."

Gilbert grumbled something about being totally awesome and not needing to take a rest, but Ludwig would have none of it. He tugged him patiently to one of the two makeshift beds, only to watch in horror as the elder stumbled and crashed to the ground, dissolving into tearing, hacking coughs.

"Gilbert!" He fell to his knees beside his brother's trembling frame, "_Bruder_!"

Even as a child, Ludwig had not been one to get easily frightened. His district, his lifestyle, his personality in general had hardened him and one would find they had particular trouble scaring the boy (just ask Gil, he'd tried and failed a number of times). But that morning, as the dark finally began to recede and he sat watching as his only family crumbled and fell apart, able to do nothing – the fear was with him then. Gnawing at him, rooting him in place as he tried in vain to comfort Gil, giving him water when his coughing allowed for it.

Within an hour, Ludwig had managed to heave Gilbert back to his feet, leading him from the house with shaky, faltering steps and out into streets that were normally too dangerous at this hour – but given the albino's sudden condition, they didn't seem to have a choice. Leaning heavily on the younger's side, held up only by the arm draped around his waist, Gilbert shuddered and coughed, and a look to his left would show Ludwig the sheen of sweat glistening on his brow and the glazed look in his eyes.

For this reason, and for the fear, he did not look.

"W-West…"

Ludwig adjusted his hold and shuffled faster, managing to frighten off a few watching stragglers with his glare. This wouldn't last long, though; he needed to hurry.

"West, where… are we going?"

"The doctor. Now shut up."

Gil resisted weakly at this. "Aw, Luddy, I-I'm fine… we don't got the money for some un-awesome d-doc anyhow…"

Ludwig only shook his head and hurriedly pulled themselves up to the house of the only doctor in this part of the district. He kicked the door viciously until a disgruntled man appeared, and at least fifteen minutes were spent with him and Ludwig arguing over entry, the man planted firmly in the doorway and the brothers swaying precariously on his doorstep.

Only when Ludwig remembered the smokes in his pocket were they allowed in at last – even with a few missing, the pack was still worth a small fortune and the _good doctor_ had grudgingly stepped aside at the sight of them.

Another hour and the man had finished inspecting his brother, informing the stoic young blonde that he had contracted a rare disease found and only in the districts, one with a long name that he couldn't pronounce for the life of him, that would, without proper treatment, kill him within fifteen years from the inside out.

There might have been sympathy in his eyes when he said that treatment was only available in Hetalia.

After that, he had told the younger Beilchmidt that all he could do was recommend things to make it easier – stop drinking, smoking; don't work in the mines for it would only cause his organs to fail that much faster and more painfully. All things which, in the end, both brothers knew he'd do anyway, despite the doctor's warnings.

So with a nod, the Beilschmidts left, staggering back to the rundown, falling apart shack of a place they called home, without either saying a single word.

From then on, they never spoke of it. What was the use? Nothing could be done, and Gilbert seemed perfectly content to pretend that nothing was wrong, that nothing had changed.

And in fact, Ludwig almost believed it – in the day, it was as if none of it ever happened. Gilbert was just as loud and obnoxious as usual, just as reckless – perhaps even more so. He drank more, got into more fights, nearly obsessed with being the strongest at whatever wounds he might have to face. He never said so, but Ludwig thought it was because he needed the proof that he was still there, still alive and making a dent in things in all the time he had left.

During the day, he was fine – it was at night that the fear would return.

Because then, when the sun had disappeared, the mask would slip and crack, and the blonde would wake to the sound of his brother coughing relentlessly in the next room. And all he could do to help was sit with him, offering water and awkward pats on the back when he thought he should (never having been a very 'comforting' presence).

Nights like this came more often as the years passed, they grew more violent, and by the time Gilbert's twelfth Reaping came around at the age of twenty four, and though neither ever said it, they knew the doctor's decree of 'fifteen years' had been optimistic.

It had been eight years, no more, and deep within him Ludwig knew it would be a miracle if Gilbert lived to see another.

So when Reaping day finally arrived and the brothers' names shouted over the still audience, mixed within the turmoil of emotions he experienced there was one that was prominent, and it was this he focused on as he was packed into the train with his brother: perhaps, now, Gilbert might live.

"West! Get your head outta your ass, come on!"

Ludwig rolled his eyes with a sigh, but couldn't stop the small swell of hope in his chest as he watched the elder Beilschmidt bound into the next train compartment, singing praises of "totally fuckin' A for _awesome_" to the giant flat screen television there, much like a hyperactive puppy. His brother might _live_.

In fairly higher spirits, he joined the albino in the cramped room, already informed that they would be watching the Reapings there that they had missed in their district. What he had not been informed of, at least not until that moment, was that they would soon be sharing this compartment with two others.

"Oh yes," The government agent gushed in response to Ludwig's bewildered stare. "The two tributes from District Eight. Lovely boys, really; they should be along shortly. But, until then, just watch the Reapings, yes?"

And before he could protest to these arrangements, the agents were gone, and Ludwig alone with his brother who was currently wolf whistling and whooping as they themselves took the stage.

"Se-_xy_!" Gilbert cheered, the grin he wore identical to the one on screen. "Look West, I'm absolutely—"

"Awesome, so I've heard." He sighed as the Prussian laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Aw, don't feel bad, West! Look, you're pretty cool yourself," Ludwig swatted his hand away, focusing on the flashing of the TV. At the moment the camera seemed to be catching them both well : Gilbert, confident and donning the classic wolfish grin he was well known for, and Ludwig, intimidating and backing the confidence up.

Gil booed when they flickered off the screen, and Bella was announcing a new pair, and Ludwig was only half listening as the names were yelled into the sky, into the waiting ears of two unlucky people in the crowd. A man named Francis, his friend Arthur. Neither looked particularly threatening, and the German would have dismissed the pair had the camera not then closed in on their faces.

It wasn't the Frenchman that caught his attention, it was the shocked-looking other. And before he knew it, he was on his feet, pointing accusingly at the screen and barely processing the words as they passed his lips in disbelief.

_"I know those eyebrows,"_

"…"

A pause.

"W-West? Uh, you okay buddy?"

The answer was no, he was _not_ okay, because damn it all he _knew_ those eyebrows, and the emerald eyes beneath them. Ignoring the climbing heat in his cheeks at the looks he was receiving for his sudden outburst, he turned to his brother.

"We know him." He said, blue orbs boring into Gilbert's red ones in earnest. "I'm sure of it. Look at him, Gilbert – doesn't he look familiar?"

The albino frowned, and fumbled momentarily with a small remote before managing to pause the program and focus on the blonde frozen there. After a moment, he leaned back in his seat, blinking in surprise. "Huh, now that you mention it…"

Ludwig nodded curtly, slowly retaking his seat and glaring at the television. He was surprised, to say the least, when the answer to their question was retrieved his brother.

"Six years ago…" He licked his lips, started again because the words were hesitant, ruby optics still focused on the screen. "Do you – do you remember Scott?"

Ludwig started, a twinge of _something_ forming in his chest before he nodded again, jaw tightening a fraction. Yes, he remembered Scott. After their first encounter eight years earlier, the brothers and the redhead stayed in contact. He became a frequent trading partner, of food, goods and smokes. It wasn't long before he became a coworker to Ludwig as well, as he joined Gilbert in the mines. And the tragedy had occurred only a year after he joined, when Ludwig was fourteen.

The mines were infamous for their dangers – the terrible explosions and collapses that happened were fairly frequent, often taking five or six lives. But the sudden collapse that had caught Scott in the fray remained one of the worst. The accidents had claimed lives before, but eighteen miners were lost in the depths, and six years ago, the redhead had been among them.

It was something Ludwig preferred not to think about.

Because while he and Gilbert had gotten out, more or less unharmed, they had both gone back in to look for survivors. To this day, Ludwig still wasn't sure what it was that compelled them to return; all their lives, and all the time after the incident, they had looked only after themselves because they knew that no one else would; that no one would try to rescue them if _they_ had been caught in the mines. It wasn't in the nature of their district; the world was cold, and you were lucky if you had only one other person to trust in at all.

So Ludwig found it very hard to believe that both he and his brother had dove back into the catastrophe, still dangerous and with other tunnels in critical condition, just for the sake of one man they weren't even sure was their friend. Even harder to believe was that it was Ludwig who found him, half crushed and dying in one of the innumerable mines.

He remembered trying to dig him out, quickly and in desperation as the world crashed down around him. And then the blackened hand reaching out from the darkness to weakly ruffle his hair in a way reminiscent –_ too reminiscent, too familiar, you know what it means _– of when they first met. Fading emerald eyes locked with desperate blue, and in that moment Ludwig understood – there was nothing, at all, to be done. Slowly, his shaking hands returned from the debris to his sides, useless. He heard himself ask, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

And after a moment the white flash of Scott's grin shone in the dark, and a watery, broken chuckle met hi ears. "W-What do ye… want for it…?"

And Ludwig almost laughed. "I'll put it on your tab."

The hand fell from his hair and into his waiting palms, twitching slightly. There was a grunt of pain, before the gentle gust of a sigh. "Ah, I don't think I'll be able to pay you back, boyo," Scott laughed weakly, "So how 'bout this – if you sit with me here for a while, it'll settle your debt from way back when. Aye?"

Debris and rocks crashed around them, but Ludwig found himself agreeing all the same. So he sat, just speaking casually with the dying man, loosely holding his hand as his grip grew steadily weaker. In those last few minutes the young miner learned more about Scott than he had in the entire two years he'd known him; that he was now twenty one and had been nineteen when they'd met, three years older than Gilbert and seven years older than him; that he had not grown up in this district as the brothers had, but rather in District Two.

He had three brothers, and twins that had been too small to know or count as true siblings. He was the oldest of all of them; the second oldest, Ira, a gentle boy he got along well with and only a year younger, had been chosen for the Hunger Games when they first got transferred here, after their mother had abandoned them. He didn't need to finish the tale of his fate. Next had been Wallace, Wally for short, a quiet, serious boy that had been killed by a local gang when he was thirteen. In the wrong place at the wrong time.

Ludwig had frowned as he realized just how much hardship the man before him had gone through, when Scott had mentioned his third brother. The youngest, (and final, as far as Scott was concerned), and the last living at a year below Gilbert's age. His name was Arthur.

"He was a rotten little brother," Scott chuckled quietly at memories only he could see, "A wiseass, he was. I always loved messin' with him…" He gave a wet, shuddering cough, and Ludwig squeezed his hand tighter. It was a moment before he could continue, much quieter.

"But maybe… Maybe I was just a bad big brother to the boy… You know somethin', lad…?"

"What?"

"For all I remember of the kid… you remind me of him." Suddenly, and out of nowhere, Scott jerked his hand free and Gripped Ludwig's collar, tugging him down closer. His voice was only a rasping croak, but it held all the force and strength he needed.

"Listen to me, boy. You listenin'?"

The miner bobbed his head, knowing Scott would catch the movement at the close proximity. "Good. Now this is a long shot, but I want ye t'do this for me. This last favor. There's a paper, in me front pocket, can you reach it?" Ludwig nodded again, and carefully stretched one hand across Scott's front, trying his best not to jostle the wounded man and put him in further pain. At last he managed to pull free a crumpled and soot covered paper; Ludwig wondered if it was even still readable.

"That there…" Scott's hushed, cracking voice interrupted his thoughts, "Is a special recipe. A family secret, p-passed on… through generations," Again, he gave a tearing hack, and the firm grip he had on the boy's collar loosened considerably. With his free hand Ludwig's fingers found the other's again, squeezing urgently, but only receiving a feeble twitch in response. The older minder's breath, he could hear, was fading and shallow, and with a sudden pang of fear Ludwig realized this, but Scott forced himself to speak all the same.

"N-Now, here's the important part, boyo," His fingers scrabbled for a moment before finding the hand that held the paper. Slowly, and with care, he closed Ludwig's hand over the recipe. "If, by any chance, you should meet Arthur, I want you to give this to him. An' tell him… Tell him I'm sorry, and that I was always proud."

He gave Ludwig's hand a gentle squeeze, one that held too much finality, too much farewell in it for the German to handle, "C-Can… Can ye do that for me, lad…?"

And Ludwig, not truly positive what he was doing, leant down to breath the reply in his ear, because he did not trust his voice to anything above a whisper.

"I will."

Scott's hand slipped from his the moment after the words passed his lips, and Ludwig knew, somewhere within him, that he had heard his answer.

He didn't know how much longer he sat there in the darkness beside him, no longer caring for the increasing instability f the tunnel he currently occupied. For some reason, he couldn't quite bring himself to stand and leave Scott alone, not just yet. So he remained quietly, until a familiar voice reached his ears.

"West! _Ludwig_! Goddammit, where are you?"

It was the use of his name, his _real_ name, that snapped the boy back to reality. Gilbert never used his given name unless the situation was that dire, and at that moment the sheer urgency and fear that filled his voice spoke for itself.

"_Ludwig_! Answer me, kid!"

Gilbert was getting desperate, he could hear it; with a last glance at the body beside him, he jumped to his feet and stumbled through the wreckage in the direction of his brother's voice.

"Gilbert! _Bruder_, I'm here!"

There was a cry of surprise, and in moments a flash of silver and then Gilbert's own glowing red eyes appeared in the blackness. Before Ludwig could call out again, the older minor was sweeping him into a rough, bone crushing embrace, cursing colorfully in his native tongue.

Ludwig yelped in surprise, about to start to struggle from the strong grip in his embarrassment when Gilbert's words finally became clear.

"Dammit, I told you to stay with me! We were going to look for him _together_!" He choked out, tightening his hold as the smaller one tensed in shock. There was clear, definable concern in his brother's voice, and he wasn't done. "I thought I fucking _lost_ you; don't you ever do that to me again, you unawesome _dumme __Göre! Verdammt!_"

His body shook as he held the boy closer, his embrace almost painful – but Ludwig couldn't bring himself to pull away. In fact, a strange emotion was taking hold, and before he quite knew what he was doing, he had raised shaking arms around his brother's neck, hugging him back, feeling Gilbert's supressed sobs mixing in with his own. Later they would both deny, vehemently, that they had ever cried; but the fact remained that they had, in the crumbling darkness of the mines.

After what very well could have been five minutes or thirty, Gilbert wordlessly scooped his younger brother up and again began heading for the surface. It was the first time he had done this since Ludwig was small, and would undoubtedly be the last – at fourteen, the younger was already nearly as tall as he was, and still growing. With the albino's deteriorating bodily health added on, such feats of strength in the future seemed terribly unlikely, especially given Ludwig's general objection to being carried, but at that moment he made no protest. Instead he opted to mumble, barely audible into his brother's shoulder.

"I found him, Bruder."

Gilbert's steps had only faltered for a moment upon hearing this before picking up his pace again. If Scott hadn'e been with Ludwig when he found him then it could only mean one thing.

He said nothing as the boy relayed the story, the recipe crinkling forlornly where he'd tucked it away in his pocket. They were nearing sunlight when Ludwig finished, and the sudden, foreign feeling of grief that plagued them both was so powerful and shaking that it nearly got them crushed by falling debris. Both had gone sprawling as Gilbert dove to the side at the last moment, before scrambling back up, grabbing Ludwig's hand and sprinting for the surface. Together they burst into the light, coughing and panting but alive.

The mine collapsed in moments, and Ludwig, exhausted and distraught, followed suit soon after. He woke in his own cot at home, disoriented, before nearly having a panic attack over the absence of his brother – had he gotten out of the mines? He couldn't remember, he just couldn't remember – only to find him passed out on the bed in the next room.

With a winded sigh, he rumpled to the foot of the cot, staring blankly at the crumbling ceiling while his brother didn't even stir. He had no idea how much time had passed; the sky outside the window was neutral, and he couldn't find the energy to check the only working clock they owned. At his side Gilbert twitched before going still again, and Ludwig grimaced when he glanced over.

His brother was covered head to toe in grime and soot, boots and work jacket still on. His face was troubled, and every now and then he would jerk or cough slightly, his sleep fitful and pained. It seemed his brother got no peace even in his dreams.

The albino's hand spasmed near Ludwig's left, and his expression grew even more drawn with pain as a cough rattled his unconscious frame. Ludwig didn't comprehend his own actions until he was gripping his brother's hand.

Well now. _That_ was unexpected; he was not one to be open with his emotions, be they in public or private. But he couldn't stop himself from giving the pale, sooty hand in his a comforting squeeze, nor could he reign in the words leaving his thoughts where they belonged.

"It's alright, Gilbert," He whispered in as gentle a voice he could. "You can sleep peacefully; I won't let you disappear."

The prone teen before him showed no signs of waking, but Ludwig thought he saw his features relax, just a fraction, and some of the tenseness leave his shoulders.

Really, thought Ludwig, it was silly. He could do nothing to save Gilbert, and denying this fact to his brother himself was not only impractical but could also only end in misery. What was the point? He chuckled without humor; there _was_ no point. He should just carry on as before, distance himself from his brother so that when his death did occur, he would be ready for it. Sensible, practical – cold. Just like their district.

So why couldn't he let go of Gilbert's hand?

"Scott,"

He knew it was the answer without saying it. Being there with the redhead during his final moments, talking about his brothers… the conversation left him with more than just grief. There was fear – an emotion he was still not quite used to 0 and not of the normal kind. It wasn't fear solely for himself; it was for his brother. And he had realized then, thanks to the Scottsman, that he didn't want to lose him. He was terrified by the idea, of simply _not_ having Gilbert in the world. He wouldn't let it happen.

Ludwig squeezed his hand protectively, daring to show compassion – he was still in a shaken state and therefore abnormal behavior was understandable after all, so why not?

"I won't let you disappear."

With those words once again said, and his brother's face softening in his sleep, Ludwig couldn't help but feel Scott would have been proud.

Now, six years later, the burly German delicately fingered the fraying edges of the paper from the very same man, staring into the pixilated eyebrows – face, he meant, of who was undoubtedly the mysterious Arthur he was sure he'd never meet.

He glanced to his brother at his side: expression astonished, but a grin already beginning to quirk the side.

"No way. This is way too awesome. Small world, huh West?"

Ludwig nodded numbly. Gilbert might live, he could fulfill his promise to the miner he'd once known; the world was just full of wonderful surprises today, it seemed.

(On the other hand, though, they were getting this chance from the Hunger Games. The same Games in which he and his brother would most likely die, and where he would have to kill this very same Arthur. It appeared the world was quite the bitch after all.)

And it was probably this thought that pissed off The World into making it so that the other two tributes arrived at that moment, exasperating Ludwig further.

The fervent cursing from the louder of the two, in a mix of English and some Mediterranean language, announced their arrival before they themselves appeared.

"_Che palle_! Fucking train, knocking us around like this! Couldn't Hetalia afford a better transportation system? Oi, whatta you looking at, _bastardo_—"

The voice, Ludwig decided, was definably angry, and instantly irritating. He could already feel it grating on his sanity.

"Ve, _fratello_, calm down – it's a very nice train, _si_?" This voice was a few notes higher, and full of vitality and an optimism Ludwig couldn't comprehend. Both were extremely obnoxious and loud, that was certain. At his side, Gilbert was smirking, eyes flashing with intrigue. The two were speaking again (arguing, more like – or, more like the alto was yelling and the tenor was failing at placating him), much closer now.

"Lovi—"

"Don't '_Lovi'_ me, Feliciano – you shouldn't have held me back from that bastard!"

"_Mamma mia_, someone needs a hug,"

"_Que_—? Stupid, I don't want a hug – lemme go, _idiota_—!"

And then they quite literally crashed through the door and onto Ludwig. Who, suffice it to say, was less not pleased.

At all.

"_Verdammt_ – get _off_ me—"

"Ha ha! Looking good, West!"

"Shut _up_, Gilbert!"

Ve, L-Lovi, you're crushing me—!"

"What the hell, bastard? Get your pasty white potato stuffing ass off'a me—!"

The train compartment, by this point, was reduced to nothing more than flailing limbs, multilingual curses (mostly provided by an angry German and a very unjustifiably pissed off Italian), and a nuisance of a Prussian laughing his ass off in the corner. Ludwig hoped he choked.

When everything was sorted out and body parts no longer strewn across each other, the pairs sat in a tense silence, glaring across the small space that separated them. (It was more like the angry twelve year old – he looked that way to Ludwig, he was so damn short – was glaring daggers at the blonde, who was busy calming himself by counting back from one million and was currently failing, while the other Italian glanced worriedly between the two and Gilbert sniggered to himself, despite the growing bruise on his arm where his brother hit him.)

At some ungodly high number, Ludwig gave up, and sighed. As per usual, he would have to be the adult here. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, quickly gaining the attention of the two brunettes.

"Well. It seems we have gotten off on the wrong foot."

When the one with anger management issues only muttered half hearted curses beneath his breath, Ludwig continued, this time his voice directed at the smiley one with reddish-brown hair. "My name is Ludwig von Beilschmidt, of District One, and this is my elder brother Gilbert."

"But you can call me Awesome Sexy Prussian Gilbert for short," Gilbert laughed and winked, and with some effort Ludwig managed to _not_ hit him and correct the blatant mistake in that sentence. Which, if you asked him, was pretty impressive because the albino was just _begging_ to be punched.

Instead, he opted for a pointed stare in the Italian's direction that clearly said _ignore him_. This was received with a wide smile, and the German had to wonder whether any of this was getting through to him because _no one_ was that happy. It was more than a little unnerving, not that Ludwig would ever show it.

"Hello!" The brunette clapped his hands together, "My names Feliciano Vargas, and this is my big brother Lovino," He poked the brooding Italian's cheek, who growled in response. "We're from District Eight!"

Ludwig nodded briskly. "It's a pleasure."

And then he was no less than _assaulted_ by hyperactive Italian.

"Ve, I'm so glad you're not mean! I heard all the people from District One were scary and big and mean and you're big and scary but not mean! I'm so glad!" With a carefree laugh he launched himself at Ludwig in a hug, who was too shellshocked to dodge. With Gilbert laughing to the left and Lovino hissing irritably at his brother for fraternizing with the enemy, Ludwig tried to pry the Italian off with little success. And when he finally managed to tear the grinning brunette away to arm's length, he found himself engaged in conversation immediately.

Shockingly, the optimistic Feliciano wasn't the least bit put off by Ludwig's attitude or intimidating aura, and fired off question in rapid succession. Even more shocking was that Ludwig complied – instead of a threat or cold shoulder, as he personally had been expecting himself to give, he grudgingly answered each random inquiry.

He listened to the light comments the smaller Italian made, the completely spontaneous stories and anecdotes he would burst into (Ludwig almost choked when he was told Feliciano was twenty as well, his brother twenty two. He'd thought they were minors).

He watched delicate hands weave the air in wild gesticulations as he spoke, and looked on in amusement as he interacted with Gilbert and Lovino.

If there was one word Ludwig had to choose to describe Feliciano Vargas in their first hour of acquaintance, it was _genuine_. (Were he given a few more words, he would have chosen some like: idiotic, pathetic, spacey, irritating, cowardly, and a few other choice words.)

He was genuine, honest, _true_ in everything he did. At first, Ludwig had been suspicious of his open and flighty exterior; he wouldn't put it past other tributes to put on such a façade to gain his trust and stab him in the back later. But such a plan seemed _beyond_ him. It took all of five minutes for Ludwig to see that. It was incredibly hard to wrap his head around, but Feliciano was genuinely this idiotic and kind, and – and—

As Ludwig struggled to find the word, there was a whooping from Gilbert at his left, and turning his head he could see the albino pressed flat against the glass of the window, eyes wide.

"West, look at this," He said breathlessly, and the German raised an eyebrow. Such a state of shock and awe were was rare for his brother, and curiously he leaned over to look.

Before he could focus his gaze, however, Feliciano popped up before him from virtually nowhere.

"What are you looking at? Can I see?"

Ludwig frowned but backed away with a huff, allowing the intrusive _dummpkoft_ first glance, only to have a small hand grip his own. He looked down in surprise at the hand holding his fingers, and then up to the brown eyes of the hand's owner.

"Ve, where are you going? We can both look together!"

And just before he could shake him off, just before he could snap at Gilbert for sniggering knowingly at the display, just before he could do anything – Feliciano smiled, and all thoughts were wiped clean as that elusive word came to him like a miracle, hand in hand with genuine.

Warm.

Feliciano Vargas was the warmest being he had ever met. And as he leaned forward again, a blush tinting his cheeks for ultimate humiliation by his brother, hand still clutched in the brunette's smaller one, only one thought chased itself, over and over, in his head: he would have to kill him.

"_Fratello_, _fratello_! Come look!" Currently, his future murder victim was waving over his grumbling brother, Gilbert still on his other side so that soon all four were crowded uncomfortably against the small window. On the horizon was undoubtedly the most magnificent thing he'd ever seen – the crown jewel of the nation, the capital, Hetalia. As they hurtled toward it at frightful speeds, structures became clearer: majestic buildings, scraping at the sky, glittering in their glory by millions of lights that shown brighter than the stars.

And, closest and predominantly, was the tunnel leading inside the city, ominous, narrow and dark.

In no time they were consumed completely, plunged into darkness and tumbling at the sudden lack of light.

"Dammit, I can't see a thing! Not cool!"

"That's my foot, bastard!"

"Wah! It's too dark!"

Feliciano's hand gripped Ludwig's tighter and he reciprocated the gesture without thinking. Knowing Gilbert wouldn't realize in time that all tunnels had an end and flailing like a chicken with no head would solve nothing, Ludwig resolved to remain in one place, fingers interlocked absently with Feliciano's, staring into the black void and waiting for the world's return.

Sure enough, a globe of light flickered to life in the distance, welcoming and bright. With little to no effort he reached behind him and grabbed his brother's collar, yanking him over to stare at the increasing influx of light. Carefully Ludwig turned, addressing the darkness as a whole.

"All right, listen. No one here has ever seen the inside of the capital, _ja_? So we must be prepared, for anything. Don't let whatever's out there gt to you, and keep your guard up no matter what. Don't give any of these government bastards any satisfaction."

The stagnant silence after he'd spoken was all the answer he needed, and with a nod he turned back to the rapidly growing light.

Ludwig had prepared himself for many things when they burst into the blinding light of Hetalia, but not for the crowd of cheering citizens.

On either side of the train, thousands of people were gathered, screaming wildly and with excitement. Ludwig could only stare. The first to react were the Italian brothers, in simultaneous opposition: Feliciano, to his right, waving and smiling enthusiastically, and Lovino to his left howling curses and flipping insulting gestures at them with just as much enthusiasm.

He glanced at Gilbert, who met his gaze, and grinned. Then he too was hooting and waving to the crowd, and Ludwig flopped back in his seat, rolling his eyes. But an amused grin was playing at his lips. It was as he watched the three shouting at the crowd that a small voice in the back of his mind sounded, unwelcome.

_Here at last. Next stop, the Hunger Games._

_..._

**Woo! Done! I hope you liked it, as well as Scott's appearance. Gilbert's disease is obviously a plot point, and the 'recipe' comes back later, too. MEGA important. ...Only not. XD**

**You may have noticed the similarities between the train ride here and Vash's. There IS a point to that, believe it or not. The tributes are more alike than they realize, and all have to deal with similar things. They're all human, and all have the capacity to join together and understand each other if they made it past the KILLING EACH OTHER factor. ...Or something like that. XD**

**So next chapter, we go back to some of the characters we've already met, as well as some new ones - aka the Stylists. I'm actually really excited. Any guesses who some of them might be? See you soon, thanks for reading!**

**(OH. And if you haven't noticed the fact that I suck and making chapter names, then I do. If anyone wants to give me suggestions on them, because I just fail that much, then feel free, ja?)**

**There was a silence**


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE IS LATE AND SILENCE IS SO SORRY. I'm also sorry for the length; I really would have cut it shorter, but I figured you guys would like the scenes near the end, so... yeah. Tell me what you think, please? I'm not so sure _I_ like how I wrote most of this, so some feedback would be really appreciated. Thanks so much for all your wonderful reviews so far, they warm my heart like you wouldn't believe! Enjoy!**

**Warnings: Err, language, I guess? Well, that and the continued butchering of the original Hunger Games. For those who care, I deeply apologize.**

**Disclaimer: APH. Not mine. HG. Not mine either. I'm kind of poor, guys. It just isn't gonna happen.**

...

"F-Francis, help–! Gah!"

"I know it hurts Arthur, but you've got to hold o – _augh_!"

"Francis!"

"A-Arthur, there's something I n-need to tell you, before the end…"

"Don't talk like that, don't do this to me now—!"

"_Non_, you must listen! I… Arthur, I've always…"

"Yes?"

"I've always thought your special scones tasted like shit!"

"You bastard!" Arthur leapt from the table with a cry of rage, and seeing that he was free, made a dash for the exit – only to be dragged back by the prep team that was currently waxing every reachable part of him to make him presentable. _Every. Reachable. Part_.

"Unhand me, you sodding fools! I will not be subject to this humiliation!"

The prep team apologized profusely as they forcibly held him down and ripped a strip of paper from his leg, and he howled in pain.

Francis, on the table next to him, sighed with pity as he twitched from a similar treatment. "Ah, my poor _Sourcils_, you were so close…"

An hour earlier, after being kicked from the train, they had been ushered here to the Remake Center for 'Emergency Treatment'. Which apparently consisted of scrubbing every _iota_ of dirt from his body, hair, and fingernails. When he was raw, red, stark naked and utterly humiliated, they were taken to this room, where his and Francis' prep team, who they had gotten to know disturbingly well by this point, then proceeded to wrestle them both down and begin tearing hair from legs, arms, and everywhere else.

It wasn't so much the nude part that bothered him – he'd known Francis his entire life, and had long since gotten used to his lewd comments – it was the scrutinizing looks he was given by the prep team, as though he were a science experiment, as though he weren't even _human_.

In the back of his mind he knew they were genuinely trying to help; they often made encouraging comments and reassuring statements that were generally more hurtful than comforting, but it was the thought that counted. This logic, however, was overrun by sheer panic when they began to move to his eyebrows.

"_N-No_! Stay away, you bloody Hetalian brutes!"

One worker stepped forward with a smile, holding out the waxing strip. "Don't worry now, the Head Stylist is coming soon and she'll make you perfect. This is just the finishing touch before the Head gets here!" At the mention of the Head Stylist (Arthur just hoped they meant the boss of the prep team, not a disembodied cranium. Not because he put it past Hetalians to have something like that, because he didn't, but more because he was dead certain that if he saw a floating head coming for him he'd cry.) all the staff paused, starry looks in their eyes at the thought of their boss, and Francis' and Arthur's eyes met in mirrored looks of mortification.

"Well," Arthur cleared his throat, willing himself not to punch one of them in the face and make a break for it, "Actually, I would prefer _not_ to meet this 'Head Stylist' of yours, no offense. I think I'm perfectly ready to go now, thank you for all the hard work – whoa!"

With eager hands the Prep Team held him down, giggling and chuckling at his wild escape attempts. They had practically forgotten Francis, who was looking on in mild horror. He held up a hand when Arthur yelped, "Help me, Frog! For the love of God, _help me!_"

"Um, excuse me? I believe Arthur's right on this one," – the glares were _murderous_ – "I-I mean, don't get me wrong, they are heinous crimes against humanity—"

"I hate you sometimes."

"—But he wouldn't be Arthur without them! He'd be like a bald rat, and those are _hideous_."

Francis was silenced by a particularly malicious waxing strip.

After another minute of struggle, the Prep Team had successfully immobilized him. The woman from before emerged, a grin on her face and a glint in her eyes that Arthur did not trust as she advanced with the wax.

"C-Come now, let's be reasonable,"

She was inches away and getting closer, and Arthur couldn't get away. "N-Not the brows, please, anything else! Can I at least say goodbye?"

There was a giggle, the strip centimeters from his forehead, he screwed his eyes shut—

"No, leave them."

The hand before his face froze, the wax dripping onto his cheek slowly. There in the doorway, eyes wide and curious but not surprised, was a young girl.

Arthur and Francis stared in shock. She couldn't have been out of her teens, and when she walked her movements held pride and confidence, but were humble at the same time. Her hair was a natural dark chestnut brown, eyes a matching hue, skin tanned evenly. Unlike any of the citizens of Hetalia they'd seen so far, her clothes were simple; no more than a plain sky blue dress and red ribbons tying her hair into two ponytails. The simplicity of the ensemble was flattering.

"Leave them be," She said again, and approached with a smile, the Prep Team parting immediately. "They give him character. Something good and distinguishable."

And Arthur was suddenly very aware that he was naked.

He colored to the roots of his hair, spluttering uselessly as his hands flew to cover himself. He had been expecting (read: fearing) many things as the Head Stylist, but a pretty young girl was not one of them.

She laughed loudly, a warm sound, and held out her hand to him. "It's all right, at least you had the decency to try. I'm Michelle, your Stylist."

Still flushing and with his legs folded in embarrassment, he shook her hand with the most dignity he could manage. "Arthur Kirkland. It's a pleasure, miss."

She opened her mouth to speak gain, but then Francis was just _there_ at her side, on one knee, fully exposed, and kissing her other hand. Arthur was fairly certain the man had never been so happy to be nude in his life ('fairly' because it was hard to tell with Francis – he _always_ liked being nude). "_Mon belle fleur_," He began in a silky voice, "_Mon ange. Où avez-vous été toute ma vie?_"

Michelle, to say the least, was not impressed. It showed partially through the deadpan stare she gave him, but mainly through the wet fish she whipped out and whacked him in the face with.

From virtually _nowhere_.

As Arthur literally fell to the floor laughing, Francis wide-eyed and staring in awe at the chuckling girl that might have been the only one to reject him so completely, the Englishman was certain he and his Stylist were going to get along just fine.

…

Alfred and his Stylist were _not_ going to get along just fine.

After being scrubbed and trimmed in all the wrong places by perhaps the _stupidest_ prep team the world had yet to see, the big Cuban came barging in wearing shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and with a tub of ice cream under one arm. Alfred's first thought was, inevitably, 'how can he be a Stylist when he can't even dress himself properly?' These sentiments may have come across clearer than he intended when he leaned over to Matthew next to him, also stark naked and looking properly mortified by it, and whispered a little too loudly, "_That's_ our Stylist? This is some kind of joke, right?"

He vaguely realized the Cuban had overheard him when a fist came barreling for his face.

'On the wrong foot' didn't even _begin_ to cover it.

The two could barely be in the same room, which was incredibly unfortunate given that they had to work with each other. Somehow Matthew had become the mediator, seeing as he seemed to get along fine with both Alfred and Mr. Ramon Carlos-Famosa Fernández García, Ray to friends and Matthew, _Sir_ to Alfred. (Alfred wasn't sure he could say and pronounce the mouthful of alphabet vomit anyway.)

The _other_ reason they seemed to stop fighting when Matthew asked was more or less out of guilt – in the tussle that followed their first encounter (after the brothers had been properly clothed, of course) the quiet Canadian had gotten pulled into the fray in his efforts to separate them. He also ended up taking the brunt of the damage, given that Alfred was throwing his punches blindly and Ramon mistook him for his brother.

And, as guilty as Matthew _himself_ felt for using his injuries to stop the two from fighting, it was doing a damn good job of keeping them in line.

Currently, the three were sat down in Ramon's office, looking at and discussing designs for their first public appearance – a dinner to be held in two hours. It was held so that the Gamemakers and the President could fully explain the Hunger Games and the rules. It also happened to be the first time the tributes saw and met each other in person, which added to the importance of how they presented.

"The real reason," Ray began, folding his hands across his stomach, "this is held is for the press – they'll be standing in the wings the whole time, getting footage and photos of the new tributes live; what clothes you'll be wearing, your mannerisms, as well as your interactions with each other."

Alfred opened his mouth to comment, but Ray overrode him, reading his mind with an eye roll. "Your appearance is important here because first impressions are always the most meaningful, especially in your case. The better your impression at this meeting, the more sponsors you're likely to add up."

"And who manages those?"

"Me." Ray shrugged at the skeptical looks, "I'm more or less also your manager. The Stylists for the other tributes are the same."

Matthew fingered one of the designs lightly, trailing a finger down the detailed sketch. "These are amazing," He said quietly, hands fluttering over the pictures one by one; Ray beamed. Alfred, in turn, scowled, but even he had to admit the designs were pretty impressive. They were all fairly simple, mainly one solid color each, but with little touches and details that caught the eye and stood out. There was one thing that confused him.

"How come me and Matt's outfits are all the same?" He pointed at a cream outfit with scarlet and gold trimmings. "Each of these has two designs – one for me, one for Matt, I'm guessing – but they're all the identical."

Ray nodded, a grin forming. "Yeah, I did that specifically. This is your introduction to your viewers and competitors – given that your nearly identical already, matching outfits would be both pleasing to the eye and daunting to the tributes."

"But we're not the same person," Matthew muttered. Alfred frowned; ever since they were little, he knew, Matt hadn't liked being mistaken for his brother, no matter how well he hid it. The American gave his hand a small, comforting squeeze before turning back to their Stylist, mouth opened to add to Matthew's protest, only to falter in surprise at the softened expression on Ray's face as he eyed the two.

"I know you're not. And believe me, there will be a time for individuality soon. But for now, focusing on your similarities is your best bet."

He reached over and, in a rare show of compassion, ruffled both brothers' hair with a sad smile. "And don't worry – I'm not asking you to be the same person or talk in sync with that freaky twin telepathy thing. Just keep quiet during the meeting, observe, and dress the same. It'll exude an air of mystery and maybe rustle some other tribute's feathers. And _then_ we'll show everyone who you really are."

Alfred looked to Matthew for confirmation. Personally, he had no problem with the plan; in fact, he thought it was pretty smart, not that he would ever give Ray the satisfaction of knowing that. But if Matt was uncomfortable with it, then that was that, hands down.

Matthew nodded, smile strained. Alfred's brow furrowed in concern, and he ignored Ray's inquisitive gaze boring into them during the exchange. "Are you sure? If you don't want to…"

His brother's eyes warmed, smile a little more genuine and relaxed. "I'm sure, Al. It's okay."

After a moment, Alfred returned the gesture, beaming at full force. They turned back to their Stylist, both sets of eyes glinting with determination. Seeing this, Ray cracked a grin of his own, spreading the papers across the table.

"Alright. Time to get down to business, _sí_?"

…

Well.

This was awkward.

Toris crossed his legs tighter, face burning, as he contemplated jumping out the window to escape his humiliation. Certainly a twenty five foot drop was better than this.

The prep team circled him like vultures, eyes beady and ravenous, taking in every inch of his pale form. He curled further in on himself, willing his being to just disappear. Ivan sat on the table beside him, fully clothed, expression a rare one of sympathy. Toris; current situation was partially his fault after all.

Apparently each tribute had a similar treatment – a brutal rubdown to make them 'presentable'. Truthfully, Toris could respect this; he was grateful for it, really. He hadn't realized just how filthy he was until then, and the feeling of being clean for once was both foreign and wonderful, so it wasn't this that he minded. It wasn't even that, besides a quick, ginger hair wash, Ivan came away from the whole ordeal scott-free since he liked to keep up his personal hygiene anyway (in reality, everyone was just too frightened to approach the Russian; Toris didn't blame them, he'd known Ivan long enough to be able to tell when his smile was genuinely kind or if it was conveying the message 'say the wrong thing and I will beat you down with a metal pipe'. In this case, it was the latter).

No, what landed him in _this_ predicament was that, because the second half of the prep team no longer had another tribute to work on, all attention was focused on him.

He was now twice as red, raw, embarrassed and in pain than the average tribute, and the prep team still seemed to be searching for more flaws, be they existent or not (because really after washing his hair in what he firmly decided was acid four times consecutively, there was no way it could still be greasy). One of them patted his head patronizingly, and he internally winced at the instant pain that flared in his scalp.

"You're doing very well," One of them encouraged in a piping voice, "No whining at all. Really, we absolutely _hate_ whiners."

He forced a smile and nodded, not trusting his voice. As it turned out, he didn't have to.

"Surely you're almost done? You've been working on him for an hour and a half now,"

The prep team shot the speaker identical withering looks, but in the far corner of the room Eduard stood defiant, glaring back. As long as it wasn't Ivan, the Estonian could be quite confident, and Toris admired this. He sent a grateful smile his way, which Eduard returned with a small quirk of the lips. Emboldened by his comment, a smaller voice piped quietly, "Y-Yes, the meeting's in a few hours now, and we n-need to get both of them ready,"

Dear lord, Toris had almost forgotten Raivis was there. He'd been cowering beside Eduard for so long now, looking properly mortified on Toris' behalf, that he almost wondered if the boy wasn't trying to claw his way through the wall. Raivis shifted nervously, blushing and clearly uncomfortable, but remained standing; really, Toris was touched by his efforts.

The prep team, however, was not. They shot the two purely _acidic_ glares, which Eduard returned with an indignant look and Raivis received by shrinking back again into his corner. The prep team was clearly bitter about the duo's presence there – the thought that two amateur district-goers would be performing the distinguished job of Head Stylist while they all felt they could do better.

It was perfectly legal, Toris knew for a fact; tributes were allowed to bring friends and family to be their official Stylist – manager – Toris still wasn't sure what the difference was – if they wanted to, as long as they didn't mind the risk of putting such an important job on inexperienced shoulders. But Toris trusted those two; they were both smart and clever, and he knew they would try their best to keep him and Ivan safe in the Arena during the Hunger Games.

He was broken rather rudely from his thoughts by a painful scrubbing brush tearing at his back as one of the Hetalians snapped back, "Yes, yes, we're just finishing up. Be _patient_."

By that point, his back was searing, but Toris said nothing. His friends looked on in pity, and Ivan offered an apologetic smile. He cautiously returned it, glad that at the very least none of the prep team had mentioned—

"Oh _dear_, these marks on your back just _won't_ come off! Go get the bleach; perhaps that will help."

Toris froze.

Across the room, Both Eduard and Raivis had gone rigid, Eduard's cocksure aura all but vanishing while the younger tried to melt into the wall. And Ivan…

Toris didn't even feel it as the brush bit into his skin, scraping off at least two more layers from his back. At the mention of the marks, Ivan – who had been humming quietly to himself and observing, a smile on his face that genuinely lacked all malice – had flashed though a myriad of emotions almost too fast for Toris to catch.

First had been shock; his entire body had gone rigid at the mention of them, violet eyes wide. Then, if Toris was reading it correctly, a quick flash of guilt – a very rare emotion, but it was there, etched into his face and stature. Then fury, boiling, his whole frame swelling with it as he raised his head again. But that wasn't what frightened the Lithuanian the most; he recognized each phase Ivan had gone through, and each time he dreaded the last more than everything before.

Because then all traces of anger were gone from his face, and he was smiling again. And Toris swore the temperature dropped ten degrees.

The man with the bleach returned, and at the sight he felt a swirl of anxiety. "A-Ah… That's…" His weak protests were waved off as one of them soaked the liquid into a rough bush. "Hush, it'll be over before you know it. Besides, it'll be worth it just to get those hideous _marks_ from your skin!"

They came closer, and Toris was positive the brush was hissing with solution. He was known for his kindness, but really, were these people _that stupid_? No, perhaps not – further reflection on the matter brought him to the conclusion that they'd never had to deal with marks such as these before, what with all the ways they had of fixing and erasing and repackaging just like new, so perhaps they wouldn't recognize the things when they saw them. He supposed it was plausible. Idiotic still, but plausible, seeing as these people were equally stupid. He forced his mouth to work.

"Th-They're not…"

The brush paused inches from his back, "Hm? What was that?"

"They're scars,"

Ivan snapped.

No, snapped wasn't the right word. In fact, he was frighteningly in control as he clamped down on a man's shoulder with one powerful hand, squeezing with a force that caused him to yelp and drop the brush. The rest of the prep team whirled to face him in terror, Toris included, to be met with a calm smiling face and the most frightening look in his eyes any of the Hetalians had ever seen. He squeezed the man's shoulder again, who gave a small cry. Ivan paid it no heed.

"I believe Eduard made himself clear, but perhaps I shall be clearer. You will let Toris go, we have work to do." He grabbed the coat from the man he'd been scaring the shit out of and let him fall the other floor and stumble away, placing the garment gently over Toris' shoulders. He smiled down at the smaller man.

"Shall we go? Do not worry, we are done here."

Even as Toris nodded and scrambled to his feet, drawing the coat around him, one of them behind him made a noise of protest.

Ivan stiffened, and barely turned to look over his shoulder, jet black aura rolling from him dangerously, the look in his eyes nothing short of murderous. He masked it well, but Ivan was furious. His voice was a pure, icy hiss, the threat so blatantly thick and _there_ in the air between them it was tangible.

"I said _we are done here_, da?"

The prep team didn't move, too afraid to even nod or stutter. Instantly the atmosphere lightened, and Ivan was smiling happily again. "Da. Goodbye for now, then."

And without another word he strode from the room – _humming_, to top it all off – a stunned Toris quick to follow, Eduard and Raivis scuttling after.

…

The meeting room was a grand one, but Ray was glad they'd gone simple. It seemed all the other Stylists had done the same, and it wouldn't have done well to stand out too much. He smirked to himself from the corner of the room with the other Stylists. Still, he saw his instincts had been correct; while too much attention would be unwelcome, the twins were garnering just the right amount. Alfred had seemed like someone who would enjoy basking in the limelight, but he was doing 'low key' just as well as his brother, and the two harnessed an aura of mystery. The boys were naturals.

He stole a glance at the other Stylists. Some of them he recognized – Michelle, a young girl from the districts but with a lot of promise and a loyal following. He wasn't surprised, the down-to-earth girl was very likeable.

To Michelle's right, she chatted with a young man. Ram rod posture, aristocratic air and a strong sense of fashion – none other than the prestigious Roderich Edelstein. Ray quirked a brow in surprise. There had been rumors that the talented, if not snooty, Stylist would be participating in the Games this year, but the Cuban hadn't honestly believed it. The Gamemakers had been trying to recruit him for years (a Stylist with his talent and popularity would bring ratings through the roof) but he had refused each time.

There were many different theories as to why; Ray found he believed the one where the former district man didn't want to take part in killing his fellows. So what had changed? What had made this year different? If the rumors were true, then it was the Tributes this year – apparently, Edelstein knew a few of them, and had agreed only with the promise that he would get to be their Stylist. Ray couldn't help but wonder which of the arriving Tributes were his.

On the far side of the room was another familiar face – _very_ familiar. He leaned against the wall, coolly smoking a long pipe, calculating eyes drinking in everything he saw. Wound around his neck was his trademark scarf. Lars was, perhaps, the most well known of any of them. Years ago, he himself had been in the Hunger Games, and clearly, he had won. At the time, Lars had been a favorite – strong, handsome, cool and likeable – but he hadn't been expected to win. When he made it to the final five, it had been chalked up to luck, and against his monstrously strong opponents, people were already mourning his imminent death.

So it had been a huge shock when he suddenly revealed his unmatchable skills as a strategist. Upon closer inspection after his victory, Hetalia had been baffled to find out that he had been utilizing these skills expertly throughout all of the Games, every move planned to precision and with undeniable genius. Immediately the army had tried to recruit him, the government – a man with his skills was invaluable. And he had turned them all down.

The Games had, undeniably, changed him, and the resentment and hatred he felt for Hetalia and its government was both immensely strong and completely justified. He had fallen off the face of the earth – until now, as he stood silently in the corner, the Stylist for a pair of lucky (if that was the right word) tributes in the room at that very moment.

Exuding an aura of both intimidation and mystery, no one dared approach Lars. In fact, there was only one other person near him at all, although the small man himself seemed like he couldn't care less that he was standing next to a man who was practically a ghost. This calm, collected indifference was probably what allowed him to stand there in the first place, and it was definitely what both Ray and Lars respected about the man.

Gupta Muhummad Hasaan was the final Stylist Ray knew. The petite man was a mystery wrapped in an enigma, and Ray himself had never even seen the guy talk. While he was excellent at his job, he had refused, like Roderich, to ever be part of the Game. Only when, also like Roderich, he saw familiar faces among the tributes did he agree to join.

If Ray's sources were correct, then the two Gupta represented and apparently knew were a laid back Greek man, who was clearly gaining popularity among the press for his good looks, and the mysterious – if not eccentric – Turkish man beside him. The two glared daggers at each other, and Ray couldn't help but wonder if the 'enemy' act was just a ruse. Hasaan didn't seem like that type of guy, though. From what he gathered, the Egyptian was a man who valued family and such classic morals, honesty included. Which led him instead to believe that the display of Hasaan's tributes was completely true. Regardless, the duo seemed to be gaining good publicity, and Gupta as well.

Aside from them, Ray didn't recognize anyone. They were all fresh from the districts, brought to the capital by their friends and family who had been unlucky enough to be chosen as tributes. It was a risk each tribute ran, choosing a loved one to be their Stylist over a professional, but sometimes the comfort and trust of a familiar face in such a dark time outweighed such dangers.

There were many of them this year, most notably a young boy with incredibly huge eyebrows that stood next to Michelle, and a large group of Asians, all representing the same two tributes together.

The buzz of noise was collectively growing and swelling as the room filled, and in the other corner of the room the press was growing restless. By now all the tributes were seated and talking amongst themselves quietly or not speaking at all; his own two tributes were only speaking to each other, keeping a low profile as instructed. At the same time they both began to size up the other tributes, only to be interrupted by the entrance of several suits, followed by chefs with steaming trays heaped with food.

Immediately the conversation peaked as the food was set down, and ray smirked – it seemed to be taking every ounce of self restraint in Alfred's being not to dive into a platter of hamburgers a foot or two away. Somehow none of the famished tributes attacked the meal, although Ray was unsure how much longer they would have lasted had the President not entered at that moment.

All talk died away instantly.

Alfred, who had been firmly telling his belly to _stop yelling at him_ when the man entered, felt his entire stomach drop cold like a stone in water at once, appetite vanished. Not even the irritating reporters behind him dared to snap a picture of the man as he entered. Matthew's hands shook in his lap. Whatever the brothers had expected of the president of Hetalia, a man neither of them had seen before, it wasn't this.

The man that swept in then had dark, unkempt and natural black hair, and a bright, white toothed grin. His hands were stuffed into his pockets as he lilted in coolly, a long stick of tobacco in his lips. His eyes were hidden by a pair of dark glasses, and he wore a tasteful, all black suit, the jacket open and tie loose. He couldn't have been over thirty, and even that was a stretch – he looked to be twenty five, expression and posture giving no hint to his true age.

Compared to the plastic faces and neon outfits and outlandish accessories that made up most of Hetalia, the man was refreshingly natural and striking. He looked more like a male model than a ruler.

"A-Alfred," Matthew's expression was calm, his voice even softer to ensure it didn't go beyond Alfred's ears (it probably wouldn't have anyway, given Matthew's normal speaking voice) but he gripped his brother's hand until his own began to cramp. Alfred didn't blame him – it wasn't the man's appearance that silenced the room, it was his presence. A cold dread had filled him from head to toe, and his palms were getting clammy. He was on edge, Matthew too, but hell if _they'd_ ever show it.

"Welcome, tributes,"

The man's voice was smooth and glossy, cool, like water. His smile was affable; charming was the word, but there was still something in the air Alfred didn't trust. He swept an elegant hand, gesturing around him in general. "To our city. We're glad to have you here. And,"

Alfred was not the only one to gasp as the _President himself_ bowed to them, _bowed_ for christ's sake, to a handful of district members, tributes no less. The President spoke to his shoes, head still down as the crowd buzzed in shock.

"I'm deeply sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. For both my city and myself, I apologize to you brave souls."

No one moved, no one spoke – what were you supposed to say to that? The President didn't seem too keen on finding out, because then he was up again, grinning brilliantly and clapping his hands.

"Now then! I suppose you all know my title, President Faust, but that is way too formal. My name is Elijah Rin Faust, and to you I'm just Eli. I won't answer to anything else now, y'hear?"

Alfred could only stare, bewildered. The man's entire demeanor had shifted in four seconds flat, and he couldn't help but think that this was _not_ how Presidents were supposed to behave. Elijah, however, didn't seem to give a shit about being proper (as proven by his blatant ignoring of the fidgeting and fussing Gamemakers and officials). By the looks of exasperation on their faces, Alfred would guess the man threw protocol out the window like this often.

"A complete disregard for the rules." Alfred blinked, and looked over at his brother, who was smirking quietly. "That's one thing you have in common, at least."

He grinned back, feigning hurt and leaning in to whisper, "Aw, right in the _heart_ Mattie, you cold bastard,"

They snickered to themselves before Alfred nodded up to Elijah who was busily not caring about what the government officials were fervently saying to him. "So, what do you think of him? Is he _really_ sorry, or something else—"

"Something else. Without a doubt."

The American raised a brow, but said nothing. He trusted Matthew on this sort of thing – he had always been a better, gifted judge of character; something about his empathy (not that Alfred couldn't read a situation if he tried – he himself could be pretty damn empathetic when he wanted to, he just chose _not_ to most of the time). And given the conviction in Matthew's voice as he answered, the President was not, ever, one to be trusted.

"Why do you think so?" he asked, purely out of curiosity. There was a pause as Matt considered it, sizing up the President again. The man laughed, loud and clear, and Matthew shivered.

"He's cold," He said hesitantly, searching the air for the proper words. "Smooth and clear, but sharp and cold. Like…"

"Water?"

It was the first thing that came to Alfred's mind when he'd seen the man, but Matthew shook his head.

"No," He said, "Like ice."

Faust turned around at that moment, grinning from ear to ear. The brothers tensed as the room went quiet again. "Well now! Shall we get on to the rules?" A clear laugh, "Don't worry, I'll be fast. I know you're all dying to dig into this magnificent feast, courtesy of our fine chefs."

He gestured to where the cooks stood shuffling, nodding nervously at the praise. The President continued.

"I'm sure you all know the general rules – last man or woman standing is the victor. We'll get to those changes at the end." This caused a ripple of disturbance through the crowd; they all well knew that the President could change the rules of the Hunger Games at any moment, but this rule was the staple, the heart of the Hunger Games. It hadn't crossed anyone's mind that it might be changed. Alfred knew without looking what the thoughts were of the other tributes at that moment – perhaps, just maybe, they might survive. He had apologized, right? He didn't want them all to die, right? So maybe…

Alfred looked to his brother when he felt the minute squeeze of his hand. Matthew's eyes were flashing behind their frames, violet irises warning him not to get his hopes up. At the front of the room, Faust plowed on, commanding instant silence once again.

"For the next month, you shall stay here in the lovely Hetalia. Here you will be primed, propered, and trained. At the end of the month, all of you will be sent to the Arena. Until then, please enjoy your stay; all preparations have been made, and if you have anything to add, all you need to do is ask.

"You will attend mandatory public appearances, interviews, photo shoots, and the Parade, all of which you'll be prepared for by your prep team. You'll want to be your best here, seeing as those events are how you'll rack up sponsors."

There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd; they all knew the importance of sponsors. In the Arena they often meant the difference between life and death; and if you were in a tight spot, a sponsor's money might get you out of it. Good sponsors nearly guaranteed a tribute a better chance in the Games.

"That said, you'll want to treat your Stylists well – they organize all the previously mentioned events, what you'll wear, what you'll say, and will be in charge of gathering and accepting all your sponsors. They are, more or less, your lifeline in the Arena. You would do well to stay on their good side.

"After that, you will have to prove yourselves before our panels of Gamemakers," He gestured to the suits behind him, "And be judged and scored, based upon your abilities. Your Stylist will train you. Lastly, the day before the Games, you are to have the final interview with our lovely hostess, Bella. Save the best for last, because most people tune in for that one. And then there's nothing but the big day! Any questions?"

If there were, no one voiced them. The tributes shifted nervously in their seats, but said nothing. The President gave an approving nod before a grin settled over his handsome features. Alfred immediately felt dread sink into his stomach.

"Excellent. Then there's only one last order of business before I leave you to this delicious meal. I believe Bella mentioned a few rule changes, right?"

Alfred frowned; now that he mentioned it, that _did_ sound vaguely familiar. Some sort of special 'surprise'; he'd dismissed it at the time. Now thinking back on Elijah's words, he kind of whished he hadn't. At least he might be a little prepared for the words Elijah said next.

"This year, to shake it up, we're allowing more than one winner. The stance of yet is two tributes – although the number is liable to change at any time."

The room erupted in sound, most of the faces that flitted across Alfred's vision mirroring how he felt. Since the moment their names had been drawn, Jones had been at peace with how, inevitably, the Hunger Games would end. He and Matthew had never spoken of it; resolved silently, a wordless agreement not to mention just that one, haunting rule. But Alfred had been sure of how it would end since the very beginning, with or without his brother's approval – there was no way he'd let Matthew die. He would fight beside him, protect him from the other tributes, and should it come to he and Matt being the final two, he would be damned it his twin wasn't the one to walk away from it. He, since the beginning had been resolved to die for his brother. He had been okay with it.

Until now.

The only thing that kept him from jumping up and howling for joy was Matthew's hand on his arm, silently reminding him of Ray's instructions. But beneath the warning look was a joy and relief barely containable; violet eyes were glistening with tears, for once from an emotion other than sadness. It briefly crossed Alfred's mind that Matthew had been planning the same thing, but he forced the thought from his mind before it could upset him. It didn't matter now – now they could _both_ go home, together. It didn't occur to him as odd that so many other tributes – if not _all_ of them – felt the same way. Tributes weren't supposed to know each other; the chance that he and Matthew got chosen together had been hundreds to one. But they _all_ seemed to know at least one person, and were celebrating amongst themselves.

In the center of the room Elijah observed the reactions, smiling. Alfred watched skeptically; perhaps Matthew was wrong. Maybe Elijah really _did_ feel bad, and wanted to change things. The man's grin widened and he spoke calmly, voice carrying with ease above the noise.

"There's a few more surprised in store for you, but those will be revealed along the way. For now, eat – you've got a busy day tomorrow. Mingle, make new friends," He removed his glasses and cleaned them on his hsirt, head down as he spoke so that his features were shadowed by his hair. "And meet with some old. You might find some familiar faces among the crowd."

He lifted his head, and Alfred's blood ran cold as he stared into sharp, icy, _sinister_ pale blue eyes. Matthew's words rang in his skull.

_Like ice._

His smile was suddenly a sneer, and he bowed again – mocking. "Good day, tributes."

And then he was gone, leaving stunned tributes in his wake. The joy Alfred had so recently harbored had all but disappeared, leaving a cold, slimy something in his chest. He knew Matthew felt the same way – Faust was plotting something; he knew something they didn't. Matt had been spot on about him – but then why give them hope, why increase the number of survivors? What could he be planning?

Frowning, he reached for a burger, resolving not to let it get to him and focusing on the food instead. He'd only ever had a burger once – when he was young, a tribute from his district had won the Hunger Games, and in his merriment he threw a feast for the whole district, with every food imaginable. He had fallen in love with hamburgers right then and there, and they were just as good as he remembered.

To his right, Matthew hummed in pleasure; in his hands was a bowl of… something, that looked vaguely familiar but not enough to try.

"What's _that_?" He asked, staring cautiously at the concoction. Matthew smiled and popped some of it in his mouth. "Poutine," He answered around his mouthful, "It was there a few years ago—"

"During the district feast." Alfred finished. He remembered now – the four of them, he Matthew, Arthur and Francis, had attended the feast and each had picked a different food.

"Arthur and his scones," Alfred laughed at the memory, "And Francis… what did he have?"

Matthew thought about it for a moment. "Escargot," He said finally, and then at Alfred's look of confusion, "Snails."

"Of course. Francis and… _ew_. I'd prefer one of Arthur's _scones_ to that gross stuff."

There was a devious glint in Matt's eyes that told Alfred he shouldn't have said anything. "Oh, really? You'd be willing to have _scones_ again? After all of Arthur's failed attempts?"

Alfred shuddered at the memory of edible death, but held his ground. He was the hero, damn it, and no way in hell was he getting scared off by a smirking Canuck and his scones. "Of course."

"Well then." Matthew, grinning _way_ too brightly, gestured to a platter near the center of the table. "Go right ahead."

_Damn it_. "Damn it." But, with a defiant glare at his violent eyed twin, he stood and reached for a scone, hand closing around one of the hard pastries.

At the same time that someone else did.

Alfred released it, watching the other smaller and paler hand do the same. He opened his mouth to apologize, but the other beat him to it.

"Ah, sorry lad. Here, you take—"

The words faltered.

Alfred looked up.

And the world stopped.

Emerald eyes were just as he remembered them. No, even clearer, more vivid; his memory was _nothing_ to them. Hair a sandy blond disarray, eyebrows, just as bushy and thick as ever, were shot up in shock. Skin pale, familiar thin scars across his right cheekbone and the edge of his jaw, a few new here and there – one just above his left brow, another running along his neck down into his collar.

Neither spoke. Neither breathed. Slowly the talk around the table died as eyes landed upon them, sensing something was amiss, but neither cared.

It was Alfred – _of course it was Alfred, impulsive, cocky, wonderful Alfred_ – who moved first. His eyes were misty behind their frames, and his smile took up his entire face. It lit up the room, and Arthur had to refrain from closing his eyes and losing himself in the familiar _warmth_ of it.

"Arthur…" Alfred sniffled, and reached one hand to cup his cheek. He unconsciously leaned into the touch, "_Arthur_. Damn… Your eyebrows are just as fugly as I remember."

And then time resumed, and Arthur was diving clear across the table and tackling him to the ground in a flurry of tears and laughter and cursing and he swore, over and over, that he'd never let him go again.

From behind him, Francis stood, still frozen in surprise. And then his eyes locked on Matthew, and the next thing he knew he was scrambling around the table, knocking down chairs and glasses in his haste but he _didn't care_ because Matthew was there, eyes wide in shock and crying silently, and Francis had to get to him or he might just disappear.

Time seemed to move torturously slow just to spite him, but at last he made it and wrapped the trembling boy in a fierce embrace, and he couldn't really tell who was shaking and crying anymore but he had a feeling it was both of them.

"_Mathieu, Mathieu_, thank God, _mon petit_, my precious little boy, thank God…"

Slowly Matthew's arms rose and wrapped around him, then held tighter, desperately, as if he feared Francis would vanish beneath his fingers. "Francis… Oh G-God, it's really you, _Francis_…!"

"Shh, it's alright… don't cry, it's okay, please don't cry…"

Alfred had managed to right himself and Arthur, both still clinging to each other. Alfred's smile, impossibly, brightened at the sight of his brothers, and without warning he launched the surprised Brit and himself at the pair. The group hug was awkward and slightly painful with limbs flailing and everyone trying to get a hold on some part of everyone else, but none of them seemed to care. They were here, they were together, they were _alive_.

The only ones seeming fit to move were the press, cheering and snapping pictures wildly; both the tributes and the Stylists were too stunned to do anything but stare.

The near hypnotic stillness was shattered by a cry.

"Lovi! Lovi, over here!"

All heads turned to see another tribute, a Spaniard, waving frantically across the table and pushing desperately through the crowd. "_Lovi_!"

A crash on the other end of the room caught everyone's attention; there a boy trembled on the floor, chair overturned and forgotten, green eyes wide as they stared at the approaching young man. He shook his head, starting to scrabble away.

"No. There's no way. No fucking way in hell."

The Spaniard laughed, tears in his eyes, and sped up. "Lovi, Lovino, I thought…"

Lovino bolted, but the other tribute was fast. He dove and caught his hand, spiraled him back and locked him in a bear hug.

The smaller tribute seemed to be cursing in fluent Italian, blushing furiously and squirming, but the hold he found himself in was iron. "L-Let me go, Antonio, you bastard! Shit, you hug like a fucking _bear—!_"

"Lovi, my little tomato, _mi lindo pequ__eño_ _tomate_, I thought I'd never see you again,"

"I told you to stop calling me that—!"

Lovino resorted to restricted headbutting, still cursing colorfully, but his arms had come around Antonio as well, holding him close. Antonio smiled and buried his face in his hair as the Italian began to wail, loud, gasping sobs, and the two sunk to the floor.

That had to be the trigger.

Suddenly the entire room was alive with shouting and crying and laughing as old friends and family reunited; the elegance of only minutes before shattered completely. A group of five young men were laughing and clapping each other on the back, speaking in swift separate Nordic tongues and each understanding perfectly. A loud silverette was shouting and shoving through the throng – "Elizaveta! Where'd you go, psycho? I know I saw you!" – only to get punched in the jaw by the girl he was looking for, and then, still stunned by the blow, swept into her crushing embrace.

An exxentric young blond was on tiptoes, also looking for someone desperately. A quiet brunette came up behind him, smiling softly and not bothering to wipe his tears of joy s he tapped the blonde's shoulder. Turning and seeing it was clearly the one he'd been searching for, he shrieked, "Toris! Liet, oh my God!" before shamelessly tackle-hugging him to the ground.

In the background, the press were practically having seizures. Notepads and recorders and cameras were out and being abused furiously as they drank in the drama greedily.

In the Stylists part of the room, half were still stunned and rigid, while the other half were joining in the fray. The Asians had rejoined their tributes, and the young bushy-browed boy was being introduced to Alfred and Matthew by Arthur. Roderich had given a quick, flustered hug to Elizaveta, and was currently arguing with the silverette – who had planted himself firmly between Elizaveta and Ludwig, intent on sticking close to both of them – in a half-friendly, half-hostile manner. Michelle and Ray remained where they were, wide-eyed and dumbfounded.

No one noticed as another Stylist slipped from the room into the hall where a young blond waited. Green eyes flicked up as he approached. "Lars."

"Bella. I trust you've been well."

"And you – _wherever_you've been hiding. You made it an incredible hassle to find you, you know.

You made it an incredible hassle to find you, you know. I'm already regretting it." She frowned up at him, arms crossed and expression sour. There was no one in the hall but them, the cameras had been temporarily taken care of, and around Lars, at least, she could let down her guard. Well, to a degree – at least she didn't have to pretend to be so damn _happy_ all the time.

Lars scoffed. "I didn't _want_ to be found. I was trying to _forget_ all this." He gestured to the room behind him, clearly meaning the Hunger Games.

Bella frowned softly. "And have you?"

A sigh. "What do you think?"

Bella offered a tentative smile, but let it drop quickly. For a while they said nothing, both staring somberly at the door that separated them from the chaotic reunions.

"Well?" Bella said at last. "What do you think?"

Lars didn't take his eyes from the door, but Bella could see the minute tightening of his jaw, around his eyes. "There's families in there. Old friends, meeting for the first time in years."

Bella nodded, watching him carefully. "Yes."

"And Faust is going to have them kill each other."

"Yes."

Without warning, Lars' fist shot out and slammed into the wall with such force that a frame shuddered and fell. Bella didn't flinch.

Lars' deep gray gaze was dark and glinting. "He's gone too far this time."

Bella brightened, a spark lighting her previously neutral green eyes. "Then you'll help me? It won't be easy,"

For the first time since Bella had seen him in all those years, a familiar wolfish grin flashed across Lars' handsome features.

"Hell yeah. Let's give them a revolution worth dying for."

...

**So first, for those who actually read the Hunger Games series, I woulnd't blame you for being mad at me for switching the antagonist. Truth is, I didn't trust my characterization of President Snow, so I figured this guy (ugh an OC no less normally I hate resorting to those) would be easier to mold and make the antagonist. I'm really sorry about it, and hopefully you won't hate me for it.**

**I'm not sure how this chapter is. I have mixed feelings about it. I really hope you guys enjoyed it, though. The reunion scene ended up being much fluffier than I was going for, having been stuck between a happy reunion or an angry/hurt reunion, which probably would have been more realistic given how jaded about it all Alfred had been earlier, but my justification is that they've JUST SEEN EACH OTHER AFTER SEVEN YEARS. The natural first emotion would be elation, right? But don't worry, as they get more time to think and the story goes on, I'm sure angst and such will follow.**

**All your reviews are extrememly appreciated and loved, they make me feel way too good about myself. Please keep those up; I won't be able to keep updating without them! (Am I trying to blackmail you guys into reviews? Why yes. Yes I am. I'm just that horrible of a person.)**

**There was a silence**


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